


optional : reality

by customrolex



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:29:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 24
Words: 79,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1846060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/customrolex/pseuds/customrolex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames swung the door open, and the young man looked up. His eyes were dark, deadly and soft. As the man sauntered in, Eames got a better look at his face in the light of his motel room. He was very good looking, masculine and classic, cool and strong, not a hint of the shameful self-loathing so many escorts wore like a trademark.</p><p>Eames' impression of women being the more attractive gender in escort services flew out the window as he gazed at the jaw line of the young man. The forging-part of Eames watched the almost-noble gait, the square shoulders, the long fingers… The way the man seemed pleased at Eames' own appearance. The man almost seemed attracted to him, he thought with a grin. Lovely.</p><p>The light hit the man's face just so…</p><p>As Eames shut the door, a shiver of apprehension settled in his stomach. This young man was young. Very young. Hell, Eames thought. He might still be a boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally published in 2010 on shaemichelle.livejournal.com. It is still hosted there. I am the same person, and this work has not been stolen. If you prefer reading on livejournal, click on over, otherwise, enjoy!

Their architect had taken off when she'd been shot awake early. Any head start they could get in terms of getting the fuck out of dodge was welcomed with open arms; Eames didn't blame Jo for leaving early. Morrow would be furious to know he'd been drugged and forced to give up his secrets by a team as shoddy as the one Eames was with now.

Because only a shoddy team like the one that currently rested in the back room of a pub, ripping IV lines out of arms and preparing to run like fuck, would agree to go anywhere near Jonas Morrow's subconscious. The better teams, the smarter teams, they could afford luxuries like saying no to a job that was too risky in all the wrong ways. The clever, dirty men like Eames would take any job, with any pay. Because any bit of cash helped when you were wanted on both sides of the law.

All Eames knew for sure was he had missed the first kick and had a mere four minute head start before Morrow would start wake from the sedatives he'd been slipped at dinner. Four minutes to get far enough away.

"You get the machine," Josh ordered in a Yorkshire accent thicker than his rather substantial beard. "Meet you at the rendezvous in two days." With that, Josh took off down the fire escape, leaving Eames to coil to lines and slip out the front.

What a dick, Eames thought. Cuts my escape time short then takes the easier route out.

He glanced up at the sleeping mark, and hoped to God he'd get out of here in time. This was bullshit. He was never, ever, no matter how badly he needed money, taking a job that was this bad. He didn't mind the risks, he was a criminal, after all… But the stupid risks and life-long vendettas grew old fast.

He flicked the PASIV shut, creeping out into the vacant (Thank God) hallway outside the back room, pretending he'd come from the water closet. He casually entered the bar area proper after sneaking down the long hallway, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Fuck. Who came up with this plan? At first he'd thought it was kind of clever, simply walking out the front door. As if they'd see that coming.

But now he was in a room filled with fucking gangsters, all of whom were probably armed to the teeth. He was in a room filled with fucking armed gangsters with a goddamned PASIV in his hand. Hopefully none of these people recognized it.

The exit is two feet away, Eames thought. Two feet and you're almost scot-free. He pushed the door open. He slipped out. Fuck.

The second the door swung shut he was out of there like a goddamned shot. Three seconds after he took off, three men burst out after him. With guns. Basic handguns, not AKs or anything, but still guns. In reality, Eames wasn't a fan of guns. He loved shooting people guilt-free in dreams and loved being shot when a slow death was the only other option.

But in reality, being shot sucks ass and you can't outrun bullets. The explosive sound of gunfire boomed and Eames threw himself between two buildings, noting he didn't feel the tell tale punch of a shot to his person. They missed! He ducked behind a dumpster, waiting to hear the crunch of alley gravel off smooth sidewalks.

He whipped his own gun out of his holster, leaning around the dumpster and shooting one of the men in the shoulder easily as he rounded the corner to Eames' alley.

The other men cursed and stayed out of Eames's line of sight. He took off once more. He barely registered the absence of new gravel crunch following him.

He barrelled down the dirty, small alley, right up a street, down another alley turning left on the sidewalk and right up the next tiny alley he found. He ran back to the street he'd just come from, hoping to hell he'd get away with the half assed trick if he still indeed had a tail. He shoved his gun back in it's place, one hand still clutching his PASIV device.

That was fucking close, Eames thought to himself. He waited in the alley for a moment, catching his breath, before leaning around the buildings he'd huddled between, noting the empty street. He exited the alley, hurrying down to begin the roundabout route he'd planned to return to his hotel.

He heard a gunshot. In this neighbourhood, it could mean everything or nothing. But having just stolen intellectual and intingely personal property from Morrow, Eames wasn't willing to stick around and find out which it was.

He turned the collar up on his jacket, honestly considering ditching the PASIV and losing that huge bit of evidence. But machines were expensive and he already owed money to the money he owed. He slid his gun back into his hand, nervous. It didn't make him bulletproof, but damn, did he feel better with that bit of metal and death in his hand.

If he happened to run across Jo's body on his way home, he also happened to vomit, right then and there.

*

The rendezvous came and went. Eames got the money. The client was satisfied. Morrow was pissed. Skipping town was a good idea in the long run.

But there were certain elements about the last job that Eames couldn't quite get over. He didn't know if it was the unmilitarized chaos of the mark's mind, the sensitive content of the stolen material, the fact Eames had shot two people in real life, finding a young woman shot dead for building in the wrong context, or the way Josh shrugged at the news of Jo's death, saying they could split her share 50/50, as if that was Eames concern.

He'd tried getting piss drunk. After paying back (most of) his debts, he didn't have enough money to try any real gambling. He'd even tried smoking some really excellent weed, but that barely took the edge off.

He was convinced all he needed was a good, solid fuck to relieve this tension that had settled in his mind and stomach, weighing him down like lead. But laying low meant not visiting bars or clubs or casinos to pick up chicks. Even tho Eames was far enough away he probably wouldn't lift anyone's eyebrows, it was the probably that worried him. A fuck and a warm body, and the tension would filtered out in post-orgasmic glow, Eames decided. Hopefully. Because shit, he was ready to let the tension filter.

So, if the "escort" service was to be believed, his filter would arrive within the quarter hour. He'd asked for them to send a man: the women in this business were usually better looking, but men could usually take it when Eames was a bit rougher, more desperate. He didn't linger on the fact it was rather sad he knew the business that well, let alone within this particular city.

A knock sounded on the motel room door. Eames heaved himself off the bed, peering thru the peep hole to make sure it wasn't one of Morrow's goons. Or Josh. Cause fuck him.

Sure enough, a young man stood slumped in the doorway, dark hair falling into his eyes as he kept his head lowered, a tiny amount of cigarette trailing from his mouth. The man scratched the back of his neck, huddling in his simple black jacket and jeans. He knocked again. Long fingers drifted from the door to the stub of a cigarette, flicking it to the ground. Pale skin seemed flushed in the cold of the November night, orange streetlight glare and blue smoke.

Eames swung the door open, and the young man looked up. His eyes were dark, deadly and soft. As the man sauntered in, Eames got a better look at his face in the light of his motel room. He was very good looking, masculine and classic, cool and strong, not a hint of the shameful self-loathing so many escorts wore like a trademark.

Eames' impression of women being the more attractive gender in escort services flew out the window as he gazed at the jaw line of the young man. The forging-part of Eames watched the almost-noble gait, the square shoulders, the long fingers… The way the man seemed pleased at Eames' own appearance. The man almost seemed attracted to him, he thought with a grin. Lovely.

The light hit the man's face just so…

As Eames shut the door, a shiver of apprehension settled in his stomach. This young man was young. Very young. Hell, Eames thought. He might still be a boy.

"Shall we?" the boy asked after Eames continued to stand in the tiny foyer, staring at him, hand on the door handle and everything.

"Who are you?" Eames demanded. Please let this be a high school student lost beyond belief. Let the real escort be here any minute. This freaking kid could not be the one they sent to debauch Eames.

"I'm the escort. My name's Arthur," the kid added when Eames didn't reply, tossing his jacket on the chair near the dresser. "How do you want to do this?"

"I want to do this with someone who's old enough to do this!" Eames snapped. Arthur bristled, his plain white tee shirt making that messy shock of hair seem even darker.

"I am not too young," he said cooly, his words reeking with condescension. Eames smelled a lie.

"How old are you, then?" Eames asked huffily.

"Twenty two."

"Bullshit. I'm twenty nine, you are probably a dozen years my junior, at best," Eames said, advancing further into the room. He put his back to the closet doors, standing directly in front of his guest. "What in the hell are you doing working for Velvet? Shouldn't you be headed to prom?"

"Look, buddy," the kid snapped. "I'm just here to do my job, all right? You don't have to worry about my age, I've been in this game for a while and with far older and dirtier men than you."

"Be straight with me, how fucking old are you?" Eames repeated. He knew his volume was rising, but he didn't care. The loudness of his not-quite-a-shout cowed the kid, at least, if it was slight enough without Eames' finely-honed senses, he'd have missed it. Arthur sighed, shifting his weight and staring at the beige, slightly mouldy carpet.

"I'm seventeen," Arthur admitted. "But there aren't a lot of legitimate options for someone in my situation. Can we just do this please? You're paying for two hours and you should get two hours."

"You're a runaway?" Eames asked softly, his mind calling up his own days of being seventeen and involved in crime, having abandoned a home that had no right to call itself such a thing. What was this kid running away from, to choose such a life? Even Eames would have thought twice about leaving home if it meant fucking strangers in shitty motel rooms. Running away, for him, had meant gambling and pick-pocketing and forfeit that led to dreaming. He didn't regret it.

"I'm an orphan," Arthur corrected, looking up. That was so much worst, Eames thought. That was all the desperation and loneliness of being a kid on the streets with none of the choice Eames had had. He couldn't imagine having been forced into it.

He cursed and paced further into the room, trying to run away from little Orphan-Annie-turning-tricks. He ran his hands thru his hair angrily. Fuck. All of his tension was not draining, just refocusing into a new reason and location. This was not Eames' day. This was not his fucking month. Arthur tried to reassure him from his spot in the hallway.

"But I've been in the game for a long time, it's not—you have a PASIV device!" Eames spun sharply, watching as the kid stepped forward and slid the closet door open the rest of the way, gazing at the little silver case leant inside the tiny closet, next to Eames' carpet bag. Those dark eyes stared reverently at the case before turning to look up at Eames. "You're a dreamer."

"How do you know what that is?" Eames asked slowly. "That's stolen government technology and far more illegal than selling yourself to older men." Arthur stepped away from the valuable machine, hands falling to his sides. He was very thin, undernourished almost, Eames noted. His heart clenched and his mind told the organ to cut the shit.

"My parents were extractors too," Arthur told him. "We were always scraping money together and running from people. And they got caught by the more violent side of the law."

"I'm on the high end of the game," Eames replied, because most of the time it was true. The last few jobs had been rather sketchy, but usually he was seducing CEOs or tricking politicians. "And I'm not an extractor. I'm a forger. Do you know what that is?" Arthur nodded, tucking his hands into the pockets of his light-wash jeans. Eames stared at the too-slender curve of his elbows, noticing now, in the yellowed light of the motel, that they were littered with the occasional odd scar and mottled bruises.

"I'm not going to have sex with you," Eames said after a long moment of silence. Arthur frowned. "You're a kid, you're an orphan and you should be spending your time getting out of this shit life instead of letting people get inside of you."

"Don't make me leave," Arthur almost-begged, softly.

"I'm not going to fuck you!" Eames snapped. "It's wrong on too many levels—"

"I can't be caught leaving early," Arthur amended. "Velvet doesn't exactly have the best return policy, if you know what I mean." Eames lowered his gaze to the bruises once more. Arthur pulled his elbows closer to his torso, as if that hid anything. "I won't even try and seduce you," the boy promised.

"You could not seduce me, you are a child," Eames told him. Arthur cocked a brow at him, smiling.

"I'm very good." So naturally as to almost seem unconscious, Arthur's pink tongue wet the innermost of his bottom lip as he let his eyes roam Eames. Fuck me, Eames thought, before wincing mentally at the turn of phrase. This kid wasn't lying. Desperate as he was at this exact moment, Arthur could actually win that argument. How wrong was that? How unfair?

"Put your coat on," his mouth said, moving with its own volition.

"Don't kick me out! If they see I've left—" The boy's voice bordered on desperate.

"You're coming with me, Arthur," Eames' idiot mouth said, as his dumbass legs moved past the shocked boy and his moronic arms grabbed his own jacket out of the closet. His mind asked him what, exactly, did he think he was doing, adopting some seventeen-year-old whore and stealing him away from Velvet? At what point did Eames think he could take care of a kid, let alone one covered in bruises and probably riddled with an STD or two? What the hell was this feeling in his chest?

"What do you mean, I'm coming with you?" Arthur asked, not moving towards his coat as Eames fished his toothpaste and sundries out of the miniscule bathroom next to the closet.

"Get your shit, we're headed out," Eames repeated, kneeling to place his things in his bag. Arthur stared at him as if he'd grown several heads. Before Eames could tack on anything else to say, he turned, grabbing his jacket and sliding his thin arms into the worn sleeves. Eames held out the PASIV, meaning for the kid to take it so Eames could carry his carpet bag. Arthur hesitated, then wrapped spidery fingers around the handle.

Not a word was spoken as Eames tossed his bag into the boot of his car (which was definitely not a shit box), as Arthur mimicked him with the silver case. Silence rang as Eames started the car, backed out of a parking spot, and drove away. Arthur didn't remind him to fasten his seatbelt. Eames didn't ask if Arthur wanted anything to eat or drink when he stopped for gas; he let the boy sleep and climbed back into the car with a sixer of Coke cans and a pair sub sandwiches. He didn't even turn on the radio as he headed south. When the boy woke up (he'd only been out for an hour), he broke the spell.

"I think there's a flaw in your plan," Arthur said, his voice slightly hoarse from sleep. "Do you plan to… I'm not a stray, you can't just take me home with you."

"Why not?" Eames asked. Arthur shrugged.

"It just doesn't seem feasible." Eames shrugged, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel slowly. Canadian highways were so boring to drive. No cities, few towns, no adverts, just trees and rocks and trees and, oh, look, a deer, then more trees.

"Do you mind if I smoke in here?" Arthur asked, fishing a pack of ViceRoys out of his jacket, the pack slightly crushed from an hour of being slept on in a Honda Civic.

"Only if you give me one," Eames replied. "Should you be smoking? You're not legal to do so for another two years." Arthur passed him a cigarette.

"You just effectively kidnapped a prostitute, so I wouldn't remark about my nicotine addiction," Arthur said cooly, lighting his cigarette with a lighter, reaching out to light Eames' as he drove. Eames took his eyes off the road to watch Arthur's nose and mouth become a chimney, blue smoke curling artfully around his face. He dragged on his own, knowing he probably didn't look as suave in the half-light of sunset as Arthur. "Where are we going?"

"I've got a safe house not an hour away from where we are now," Eames said, plucking his own fag from his mouth to reply. "Give me a few days to make you a passport, then we'll head back to my place, I guess. Or you can take off, if you really don't want to come with me."

"I don't have anywhere else to go besides with you," Arthur murmured. "Where's home?"

"Kenya," he answered, knowing the seventeen year old beside him would have no reason to know where Mombassa was. It wasn't as homey as London, but since Eames couldn't very well go back to England after the shit he'd pulled three years ago, it had to do.

"I thought you were English," Arthur remarked.

"I was raised there, yeah," Eames agreed.

"Why Kenya?"

"I'm a career criminal," Eames replied. "Kenya's usually pretty good about that."

"You haven't told me your name," Arthur said. Eames snorted.

"I haven't told you my name and you got into my car, fell asleep and shared your cigarettes with me?" he demanded with a slight laugh. "Trusting little guy, aren't you?"

"It's not like I had much to lose," Arthur pointed out. "You refused to sleep with me in the motel so it's not like you would rape me. I don't have anything for you to steal."

"I could kill you," Eames pointed out. "I carry a gun and everything." Arthur blew a tiny smoke ring, impressing the shit out of Eames.

"Like I said," Arthur murmured. "Nothing to lose."

"True freedom," Eames murmured, if only to fill the suddenly-heavy silence. "I'm Eames."

"Do you have a first name, Mr Eames?"

"I don't like it very much," he replied dryly. "Just Eames is fine."

"Arthur and Eames," he said after a little while. "Has a ring to it, darling. We could become superheroes and fight crime. Capes and the little booties, the whole deal. I'll make a comic book. Do you draw?" Arthur rolled his eyes with such practised ease that Eames knew that he would soon become intimately familiar with the gesture.

He found he was OK with that.

*

"You are a complete slob," Arthur told him huffily, scooping the plate up and adding it to his small pile of bowls and cups. "It's disgusting."

"I am never very clean when I'm on the job," Eames admitted tiredly, flopping down into an armchair. Arthur glared lightly, eyeing Eames' feet on the freshly cleared table.

"By the look of the place, you never stop working," Arthur said. Eames snorted, letting Arthur retreat into the kitchenette with that victory snipe. Eames had in mind no less than four witty comebacks but he let the seventeen year old get away with it. For now. Only cause he was a kid.

He watched the boy run water in the kitchen sink from his sprawl in the other room. Arthur's bruises were fading, he could see, as the boy rolled up the sleeves of the button down he'd somehow purchased. Eames had given him some money to buy more clothes than the solitary outfit he'd been kidnapped in, and somehow Arthur had turned a small amount of money into a dozen Oxfords, a few pairs of black trousers and a pair of (slightly scuffed) leather loafers. Eames had wondered if Arthur understood the concept of it being hot in Africa, but the boy seemed content in all temperatures, never too hot or too cold. It was odd, really.

The boy looked older, cleaner and healthier in his new clothes, but Eames worried that Arthur was trying to mimic the professional gleam of the business men he had usually slept with, trying to convince Eames he had worth. Eames knew it damn well (Between the conversation, the organisation and the cooking, Eames might have to start paying the kid to stick around), but he could tell Arthur didn't see it in himself.

"Why do you have so many bruises?" Eames asked, hoping his light tone could float the heavy subject matter. He heard Arthur's grip on the mug was cleaning slip, the water splashing softly in the sink. Eames ignored it, just like he ignored the faint flush creeping up Arthur's neck.

"I was the youngest at Velvet Escorts," Arthur said. "They knew as well as I did that I had no where else to go, no one to help me if things went bad. So things were bad a lot. The man in charge of my scheduling likes it rough sometimes, and he can have me free of charge. Could have me. I'm not there anymore."

"And the scars?" Eames asked. "They look older, most of them."

"Most of my scars are three years old. When they came to kill my parents, I was thrown thru a window when the job was done. I think they meant to kill me too, so a hospital was out of bounds. I dealt with them myself, and they scarred pretty badly," Arthur said quietly. Eames shivered.

"You were there when it happened?" he asked. Arthur nodded towards the sink. "I'm so sorry, darling."

"It doesn't matter," Arthur lied. "It was three years and a lifetime ago."

"You were fourteen?" Eames asked, doing the math in his head.

"Thirteen. It happened early in the year, I hadn't had my birthday yet," Arthur corrected.

"Do you miss them?" Eames murmured, standing. Arthur looked over at the creak of springs.

"Of course I miss them," Arthur said. "Who wouldn't miss their parents? My mum and dad... They may have been criminals but they loved me."

"I'm not doubting that, Arthur," Eames assured him, moving up behind the young man to rest his chin on a bony shoulder. "I'd miss you, you know, if you left."

Eames breathed in Arthur's scent, wondering how someone so young could stir up these feelings. He wondered how he could possibly manage to avoid taking advantage of Arthur while balancing the attraction they both refused to admit (vocally) existed.

"I'd miss you, strangely enough," Arthur replied. He leaned his head back against Eames, face slack and eyes closed. "I wish you'd let me thank you properly--"

"I'm not fucking a seventeen year old, Arthur," Eames groaned, pulling away from the comfortable hug and the worn argument. "We have discussed this."

"I'm eighteen in September, and you're a criminal already," Arthur said, returning to his washing as Eames pulled the ancient fridge open, looking for something to munch on. "You've done worst than deflower a whore."

"September is ten months away," Eames retorted. "i could make a baby in that time. And you are not a whore. Quit saying that."

"I was a whore," Arthur pointed out. "And it's not a power play if I'm the one seducing you."

"It's just wrong to sleep with children," Eames replied. Arthur snorted.

"For a man whose outward appearance screams debauchery and booze, you certainly have a lot of rules," Arthur said. "I like rules, but yours seem rather silly and arbitrary to me."

"No logic?" Eames asked sarcastically, stealing the phrase from Arthur's lips, pulling a bag of raisins down from atop the fridge.

"Not a lick of it."

*

"He's a liability," said the tinny voice over the phone. Eames sighed, cradling the phone between his cheek and shoulder. He reached into the fridge, pulling out the supplies for cooking breakfast. "That kid you've got living with you is asking for it. Remember Jerry? He had a kid too and when shit went sour, his daughter got killed. Do you want that to happen to your American?"

"I said I picked him up in Canada, not the States," Eames muttered, trying to deflect the very real concern that Arthur could be used against him.

"Canadians are easier to kill," Marcus put in. "They don't have guns."

"That doesn't make sense," Eames deadpanned. "Besides, he's not my kid, we're barely even friends." He placed the cooking things on the counter and wandered dimly into the main room, trying to wrap up the conversation before Arthur woke up.

"Look, mate," Marcus said. "I know you think you know what you're doing but I've heard that you found this kid working in some drug cartel and decided he needed a home. How fucking stupid is that?"

"Well, it's not true," Eames said petulantly, refusing to admit it was closer to the truth than he would have liked. At least Arthur's real name hadn't got out. If he chose to follow Eames into the business of dreaming, he could do it on a clean slate, have time to build his own reputation purely from scratch. Eames had had him try out a few things and he could tell the kid had potential. His focus and his intelligence meant he could easily be an architect if he could handle the math, or he could be a pointman, an extractor... Eames hadn't taken him into the dreamscape yet (It was hard on your mind and body, Arthur was still malnourished and Eames may or may not be overprotective.) but if the sultry attempts to bed Eames as a thanks-for-taking-me-out-of-my-brothel were anything to go by, he could probably learn to seduce any mark, whether he could figure out forging or not. It was damn lucky Eames had restrained himself from giving the kid a much deserved fuck with some if the shit he'd tried. Eames didn't even know he had some of these kinks before Arthur came along. He still resisted.

"I'm hanging up now," Marcus said. Eames realised he'd stopped listening to his friend's rant almost three minutes ago, distracted by the memory of Arthur's attempts to repay him for his hospitality. The kid was determined to earn his keep, but somehow cooking and cleaning and getting stains out of Eames' suits didn't count. "But I'm telling you, get rid of the stray. He's a liability."

"He's not a liability, he's a human fucking being!" Eames snapped. "He's a kid and I plan to help him out, no more, no less."

"Either he's a kid you take care of, and he's killed to get back at you, or he's a kid who you fucking, and he's killed to get back at you. Ditch him while you can, alright? Hell, ditch him alive or you'll have to ditch his body, you—"

"You're an asshole!"

"I'm a realist."

The line went dead.

Eames tossed the cell phone onto the couch with a grunt, aware it would become lost in the cushions and he'd forget he'd tossed it there and get angry as he tried to find it later, but not caring a huge amount. Marcus lived in Madrid, mostly. How did he hear about Arthur? Eames had called a favour to get a passport. Fucking Katie must've passed his news around. What a gyp.

He turned, leaving his cell to the hungry cushions of the couch to feed his own hungry stomach. He re-entered the kitchen, surprised to see Arthur at the stove, pushing eggs and bacon around with more expertise than Eames would have anticipated from a teenage boy. He stared at the expanse of Arthur's pale, muscled arms, wondering at the origins of the bevy of scars littered there amongst still-fading bruises, peeking out from the black sleeves of a PJ shirt. The scars stood raised, an angry white against golden skin and the awful maroon of contusion. He couldn't imagine witnessing your parents' murders and not going insane, and he didn't even like his parents.

"I am a liability," Arthur said after Eames plopped himself down at the kitchen table, leaving Arthur to cook. "I overheard. Your friend is right."

"Marcus is not my friend, he got me arrested once," Eames replied. Arthur snorted dryly, scooping crispy bacon and droopy eggs onto a plate.

"You do not require assistance getting arrested," Arthur agreed, placing the plate in front of Eames. "And your acquaintance is right, then. You shouldn't be taking care of me."

"I want you to stay," Eames said simply, stabbing his eggs. "I ran away when I was sixteen; I wish someone had offered me a place to stay back then."

"My parents were killed three years ago," Arthur said. "Working at the brothel the past two years wasn't nearly as bad as being on the streets. I'd gladly go back to it if it means you'll be safer."

"Marcus was worried that living with me was going to get you killed," Eames corrected. "He's seen kids be killed to get back at parents in this business, lovers, brothers and cousins. Someone tortured a chemist's dog once. He's got a bit of a phobia about getting close to people. That's all."

"We are close," Arthur admitted.

"Yes," Eames agreed. "And you were not a mistake. I made the right choice in keeping you."

"Given the information you had at the time," Arthur added. Eames hoped he was joking. "How are we going to make this work?" Arthur asked him. "I want to be with you, but you think I'm too young. I want to stay but it would probably be safer if I go."

"Where are you going to go?" Eames demanded. Arthur shrugged.

"I've had a few weeks as a normal person," he said. "Maybe I should just go back."

"Back to what?"

"Reality."


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur didn't leave. He wouldn't admit it, but he probably couldn't leave. He should. He saw what had happened to his own parents, he saw the pain, the blood, the bone, the tears, heard the screams, the pleas, the bullets and felt the grief and the glass. He didn't think he could handle having that happen to Eames, losing everything once more. He didn't think he'd be able to have nights where he didn't have nightmares about seeing that, didn't think he'd want to survive after it. 

That scared him. The way he felt like, if Eames disappeared, that he would cease to exist. The closest he'd ever come to feeling this way was that one john who told him so many nice things and slept with him so often that he'd become almost a friend. Reality had struck then when the man stopped hiring him and reality would strike now and Eames would grow tired of him and he'd be fired and lonely once more.

He was seventeen, he shouldn't feel this way, regardless of whether or not he felt it about a man who had pulled him from the depths of awful on a whim and given him the one thing he missed almost as much as his parents: a home.

Lying in his bed at night, he wondered if he had somehow hooked himself up to that PASIV device in the motel, forgetting that he had actually been used and discarded by Eames, that this was all a dream and he'd been awakened to his harsh reality: rough customers and rough employers and rough colleagues, pain and sex and degradation and no where to turn to. He wondered if maybe he'd simply lost his mind and he was actually going thru his old routine now, only imagining something different with a broken mind. It didn't seem too far from likely.

But then Eames could press that kiss to the crook of his neck and shoulder in the morning, breathing a hello as Arthur handed him his coffee. He'd think he was insane, imagining the whole thing, but then Eames would absently call him darling or sweetheart or some other ridiculous thing. Hell, his own name sounded like an endearment when falling from those lips. Somehow it grounded him.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, wiggling his toes before laying them upon the worn floor of Eames' flat. His flat too, now, he supposed. He listened intently for the radio Eames' flicked on in the kitchen upon waking, and felt confident that he had beaten the man to waking.

He didn't change into real clothes, nor slip on slippers, but padded into the kitchen, bare feet silent against wooden floors. He knew the smell of coffee and pancakes and warm syrup would draw Eames from his own bedroom, but it didn't stop him from smiling happily when he heard Eames' silent footsteps creep up behind him.

"Good morning, dear," the forger whispered. As Arthur anticipated, that damnable kiss was placed just above the hem of his shirt. He grinned, grounded.

*

Eames decided to court Arthur. At seventeen, he himself had had a half dozen girlfriends and boyfriends, two meaningful and the rest teenaged flings. In his mind, dating and romance were essential to the teenage experience, and since Arthur had already missed out on school and prom and sneaking into cinemas, Eames figured he had to somehow manage to scrounge up enough immaturity to fulfil the requirements of teenage dating. He'd shared this theory with Arthur, who had merely seemed appalled at the idea that Eames had an iota of immaturity Arthur hadn't yet seen.

The first date idea was a bit of afailure. He should have bought the film tickets for that rom-com even tho Arthur rolled his eyes and made fun of him. The action flick was not the best choice, he'd realised, midway thru dealing with a semi-panic attack on Arthur's behalf (had Eames known the film featured very graphic defenestration he would have chosen Shrek IV over it).

He couldn't have anticipated the grease fire at the restaurant. That one wasn't even his fault. That was just God being mean. They ended up soaked from overhead sprinklers, eating take out with their fingers on a dirty curb a few kilometres from home. It's been worth all of the mess ups when Arthur laughed fully at some errant comment Eames had made that, in the heat of the moment, seemed so funny he should write it down. He'd never heard Arthur laugh like that. He wasn't certain Arthur had ever heard Arthur laugh like that.

It was worth all the mistakes to feel Arthur kiss him right there on the curb, spices and pepper lingering on his lips from the beef, pouring all of the innocence and naiveté he held into the kiss with all the feeling Eames echoed. He'd wanted to make love to Arthur right there on the street.

But he'd resisted, stuck to his guns. Sticking to his guns wasn't second nature to him. He usually resisted temptation until he felt tempted. Arthur was temptation personified, even after he'd stopped trying to seduce Eames. He was almost more tempting now that he wandered around in Eames' life, fixing dinner and Eames' collars on days he had to work, innocent touches that should have meant nothing to Eames but somehow didn't quite.

"You're not really walking me home," Arthur pointed out when Eames paused outside the apartment door. "You don't have to do the whole kiss-goodnight thing. We both know you'll be bugging me for food in a hour."

"We can pretend," Eames said. "This is supposed to be a proper first date."

"I don't know anything about what proper first dates should be," Arthur said, leaning against the door frame, keys in hand. The dim lights of the hallway played his face oddly, making him seem much older than seventeen. He is older than seventeen, Eames mused quietly, in more ways than he should. Arthur rested the side of his head against the door frame, his hair soft and dark against the light, hard wood.

"Well, the fire trucks would not have had a starring role. And we shouldn't already be living together," Eames said. "So I suppose this date was doomed from the get-go. I didn't quite manage the perfect evening."

"I enjoyed myself. Do I get a good night kiss?" Arthur asked softly, his dark eyes meeting Eames' greyish ones. He let his own eyes break the gaze to stare at the other man's lips, quiet now.

"I think I could manage that," he admitted. He leant close, watching Arthur straighten from his slouch. Arthur's usual, recognizable smell of soap and tobacco had mostly given way to the dank smell of air-dried clothing, exhaust and the smoke from the restaurant's fire. Eames recognized the way the younger man lightly bit the side of his bottom lip just before letting Eames kiss him, recognized the way the teen would wrap his arms around his neck and press his chest against Eames'. He recognized the reality of how fucking small Arthur seemed against him, a scant two inches short but so slender and lithe against Eames' bulk.

"If this were a real first date," Eames whispered when they'd come up for air, foreheads still touching in the hallway, "we'd say goodnight and I'd call in a few days to tell you I want to see you again."

"Lucky us, then," Arthur breathed. "We don't have to wait for once."

*

The first time it thundered, if Eames was being mild, Arthur had a nightmare. If he was being realistic, it bordered on a rather violent panic attack. He'd socked Eames for waking him right off the bat. Eames was more impressed than he should have been that someone could bit that hard while not quite lucid yet. Eames decided, when Arthur had calmed and dissolved into a pile of jelly in Eames' arms, that this wasn't a normal reaction to thunder for anyone who was over the age of five and also not a dog.

"Was it thundering the night your parents were killed?" Eames asked after the fact, holding a trembling teenager in his arms. It was the only explanation he could think of that made any sense. Arthur pressed his face—his cold nose—into Eames' neck.

"No."

Somehow that was worse. They didn't address it.

Eames simply let Arthur cuddle with him next time it thundered. No questions asked. For a while it bothered him, not knowing what it was about thunder that scared the kid so, but then he realised there was plenty about him that he never wanted to tell Arthur. There would eventually be a day when Eames had a nightmare and didn't want to explain.

What a sad matching pair.

*

Arthur slowly came to realise that he did not, in fact, enjoy being alone. The apartment was spotless, organised and calm against the heat and chaos of Mombassa only a few stories down. No shoes were lying against the kitchen counter, kicked off after a long day. Plates and bowls rested in the cupboards like they were meant to, the newspaper folded perfectly on the kitchen table.

Eames was gone. He would be back, to be sure, today or tomorrow depending on how cleanly the job in Brisbane wrapped. He was dearly missed.

Arthur was used to routines. Eames not being around when he woke up, Eames not calling him names, Eames not joining him for dinner... These absences did not fit into his new routine, the routine much better than his old one.

Before he met Eames, his routine had been darkly awful. He'd wake around eleven (having finished sleeping with people to actually sleep near four or five am most days), cook lunches and dinners for any of the girls at the brothel that were hungry, then shower and be presentable by six o'clock for any early appointments. If he didn't have any, that was usually the time when Mackey would have him.

And he'd have to shower once more before his always-full eight o'clock window hit.

Eames had thrown all of that out of whack, snatching Arthur out of his routine and into Eames' own life and home on what appeared to be a complete impulse, a olive branch Eames wished he'd received at seventeen.

But Mombassa was so different from anywhere Arthur had every been before. He'd lived in a northern town in Ontario, a hole of a place called South Gillies, with his mum and dad before they'd found out about PASIV. Mum and Dad had always been criminals, travelling the twenty hours between Toronto and South Gillies near constantly, living out of their van more than their trailer home in the country or tiny apartment in the city. Looking back, Arthur knew his parents ran a simple but lucrative growth operation for a bunch of pot dealers in the GTA before realising illegal dreaming could make them more money than illegal gardening. At the time, he just thought they got to go on vacation a lot and he didn't have to go to school. He didn't realise, as far as the government of Canada was concerned, he didn't technically exist because he never actually got a birth certificate and couldn't go to school lest the OPP find his family. The fakes Eames made him were the closest things he'd ever had to ID.

Mombassa was nothing like South Gillies. It was nothing like Arthur's last three years in Toronto, nothing like anything he knew.

It was chaos and noise and heat and smog and smoke and Arthur wouldn't admit it, but he secretly loved it.

He woke early now, at eight, to have food ready for Eames whenever he woke up. Cooking was a habit he couldn't shake. Eames seemed to like his cooking, tho, so he supposed he shouldn't try and shake it. His days were full after Eames left the apartment to help a friend with an dreaming operation. Arthur hated the silence of the home, and braved the streets alone. He had found a bookshop to frequent, a series of markets to explore, and the people in the underground with whom it made sense to have Connections.

There were colours here he hadn't known existed. The very air felt different. Maybe it was the mere fact that he was real now, real once more. He had a life now, a friend who worked at the coffee shop and spoke terrible French, a home to come back to and someone to talk with in the evenings. No more violent customers, no more Mackey laying hands on him, no more all nighters with people he couldn't stand... No more wondering how long until that regular who liked breathplay took it too far, how long until Mackey decided he fought back a little too much, how long until he entered someone's hotel room and never came out, how long until he got sick, how long until he ran out of borrowed time, how long, how long, how long?

How long until Eames came home?

He wished he knew for certain if he'd be back today or tomorrow. Eames had been gone for a month already. The bed was cold without him. Even if they weren't having sex, he missed cuddling and even Eames' snoring.

He heard footsteps in the hallway, the type that are meant to be quiet but really aren't quite. He froze at the stove, half-fried egg popping softly in its pan. He turned the gas up, heating the pan in what little time he may have. He turned, facing the doorway from the corner of the small kitchenette. Whispers sounded outside.

Silence.

The door hit the wall before Arthur registered the sound of the deadbolt cracking the thin doorframe, the snap of the security chain. The two men were inside the apartment just after Arthur registered the fact Eames' emergency gun was in the bedroom. He probably should have fetched it. Guns were not yet second nature to him.

His two guests both had their guns on them, looking so natural the metal seemed an extension of their arms.

"Hello, young man," the blond man said, his bulk and height outranking both Arthur and the blond's partner in crime, the tall black man with an odd design shaved into his tiny curls. Both were wearing that awful pairing of plaid cotton shirts unbuttoned over wife-beaters, the uniform of thugs in this area of town.

"Hello," Arthur replied carefully, eyeing the men's guns, hyper-aware that he was effectively boxed in. The stove and sink to his back, the wall with the fridge to his right, his left blocked by the tall counter he and Eames ate breakfast at, his front blocked by two men who were bigger than he and guns that were more effective that anything Arthur had at his disposal. The kitchen knives were in a drawer on the other side of the fridge. Fuck.

"Do you know where Mr Eames is?" the black man asked, stepping slowly towards Arthur. He shook his head, hoping that would end the conversation (but knowing it couldn't possibly be that easy).

"We know where he is," he told Arthur, coming closer. Arthur automatically stepped away, both hips brushing corners behind him. He had no way around this. The room seems a lot smaller when you're cornered, he thought dimly. "He's about three hours from landing at the airport, forty minutes away. On his way back from Australia, isn't he?"

"Should have known better than to leave you all alone, huh?" the black man asked. He's holding a Beretta, Arthur thought dimly. It wasn't that remarkable a gun, lots of gangsters used that gun, gangsters like the ones who shot his parents and the one who paid too well for Arthur to not bed him. Panic rose in his chest, the sounds of his mother telling him to hide, the grunt his father had let out when the first blow of the crowbar fell ringing in his ear. His hands felt clammy. He wanted to crawl, as he had so long ago, into the cupboard under the sink and wish it had a latch to lock out the bad.

"All alone, and won't it be easy to set up a nice little crime scene for your sugar daddy to find when he makes it back safe?" the man chanted. "He should pay closer attention to who he steals from. He should have listened when Marcus told him to get rid of you. Now we have to kill you before we begin to touch him. More work for us, but more fun as well." He was too close to Arthur; he could lean forward a scant decimetre and brush his cheekbone against the barrel of the gun. "Do you think he'll cry when he finds your body? I do love it when they cry..." Arthur didn't want to die like this.

He reached out quickly, grabbing the now-scorching frying pan and smashing it against the face that was too close to his. The black man dropped, slamming against the counter and clutching his freshly burned face. Arthur dove, sliding over the breakfast counter as a gun fired. He cried out, his left leg protesting loudly. He crashed to the ground, curled around his leg, shoulders, ribs and hips stinging as he hit the floor.

Fuck, he thought, lying next to the chair he'd knocked over. He grabbed his thigh, noting he'd barely been shot, in the scheme of things. The bullet had grazed him, really. Movies are bullshit, he thought angrily, you could not not notice that, it fucking hurt! The gash was long and deep, but it was far from a real bullet wound. How sad was it that he felt lucky?

"You fucking little shit!" the blond snapped, rounding the counter as Arthur sat up. He was probably going to die in the next five minutes, but damn if he would let himself be murdered lying on the ground like a doll.

A groan sounded from the kitchenette. Arthur grinned up at the remaining man, using the wall behind him to pull himself to his feet. He was shaking. He didn't want to die. Things were just starting to get good, and Arthur felt cheated. The blond man laughed as he kicked the chair against the counter, training his gun on Arthur once more.

"So brave," he said softly. "So young and I can see from here this is not the first time you've faced death. I can see you're jaded, kid. You're a baby still and already so ruined and dirty."

"I'm not ruined," Arthur replied coolly. He clenched his fists, unable to believe he was trembling like some fucking Princess Peach. He should not be scared. He should not be wishing, with every inch of his being, that Eames would be OK. Shouldn't he be hoping he'd be alive tomorrow, and not be worrying about Eames?

The man laughed again. It would have been a nice laugh on anyone else at any other time.

"It's a shame. I had planned to kill you quickly," he said. "We do only have so much time before Mr Eames returns. But you just disfigured my buddy, so now I'm thinking we should have some fun with you. Phillip! Want some payback?"

"Now I do," Phillip said, standing. Arthur admired the horrid burns, a strange sense of satisfaction in his gut. He was cornered again and with less weapons this time. Satisfaction turned to fear. "I look like the motherfucking Hamburgler."

"Hamburgler wore stripes," Arthur pointed out.

"Did I say you could talk, maggot?" the blond man snapped. "I do not remember saying you could talk!"

"I don't need your permissio--" Arthur began, cut short by a hard blow to the stomach. Jesus, all of that bulk really was muscle, he thought dimly, trying to force air into his lungs. He doubled over, and someone seized his collar and yanked him forward. He tumbled as easily as a chess piece, launching his hands forward to catch himself on all fours. One boot smashed into his ribs, stunning his diaphragm once more, while a bigger pair mashed his left hand. He fell to the side, gasping. The foot ground down once, twice before lifting, and Arthur curled his broken fingers to his chest.

The blond man's hand latched around his collar again, yanking him to his feet. Arthur's socked feet scrambled for purchase against the hardwood floor, trying to relieve the pressure of his own shirt against his windpipe.

Phillip may be smaller than his counterpart, but he was apparently very strong as well, Arthur thought, eyes watering against the blow to his cheekbone. Warm, sticky wetness burst from a cut delivered by a wedding ring. He was struck again, and again. Face, belly, ribs, eye, nose, cheekbone... He lost track, trying fend off the blows and kick the man holding him up. He got a few glances in, but in the long run he knew he would lose.

He elbowed the blond holding him when the angle he was being held at shifted enough to allow it. The blond cursed, grabbing his nose, and Arthur tried to gather his bearings as he stood on shaky legs, lungs pulling in buckets of oxygen. Phillip backhanded him forcefully, sending him to the ground once more.

If I live, he thought dimly, I am learning to fight back much better than this.

He spat blood onto Phillip's shoe, enjoying the fact his nose was bleeding but had not broken. It was a perverse triumph.

The blond man grabbed a handful of Arthur's pant leg and shirt and all but threw him into a wall. The wall crackled, stinging Arthur's neck where his head hit drywalling and sending jolts of agony up his broken fingers all the way to his shoulder as he hit the ground. He cursed, rolling onto his back. Phillip reached for him, and Arthur kicked out, his heel catching the man's lips, crushing the delicate tissue against yellowed teeth.

"I'm gonna kill him, Josh," Phillip ground out, spitting blood. Arthur used the temporary distraction to scramble to his feet, trying to get around the two. There was a field hockey stick in the umbrella stand (placed bizarrely or strategically next to the couch), hidden with flimsy and rarely-used umbrellas. If he could get it—

He knocked the stand over as Josh grabbed his shirt once more. Would fighting these men off be easier naked? he thought sarcastically as he was pulled off balance and thrown to the ground. Everything is easier naked, Eames' voice said in Arthur's head. He would have laughed, but instead he tried to break his forceful fall with his broken hand, and he heard, rather than felt, the snap of his wrist. The scaphoid is the most common fracture in active teens, rang the nerdy part of his mind.

He rolled off the appendage, curling in pain, blind momentarily by the heated burn of his arm.

"Trying for this?" Josh asked, stepping on Arthur's thin chest and pressing him to the floor as he moved over to the couch to grab the solid wood stick. Arthur's wrist throbbed with the rough movement. "Nice stick. Do you play?" Josh questioned, tone casual as he whipped the stick down. Arthur swung his hands up instinctively to protect his face and cried out when the stick cracked against his chest, once, twice, and, fuck, his knee! He laid on the ground, blinded by pain. He didn't notice till too late; Phillip reached down for him, lifting him up by the front of his shirt. How had it not ripped yet? Didn't buttons snap off like nothing? Arthur couldn't think past the vertigo and the pain. His back (his mouth? Was that him making that noise?) screamed murder as the shards of the hall mirror cut him, thrust against the glass by someone too strong.

"You're going to die, little one," Phillip said, pressing a forearm against Arthur's windpipe, lifting his off his feet. His back dragged up thru glass as he was forced up and away from the floor. Arthur tried to drag in air, clawing at the arm across this throat, tried to not flashback to the Marriott and losing consciousness again and again as a married man thrust into him, covering his mouth and nose with a plastic bag, a hand, a wet cloth...

Phillip had shoved his gun in the waistband of his jeans, a classic holster for lowlives. Arthur didn't think, couldn't think, he reached down, grabbing the metal, tilting it up and firing.

Phillip's chest kind of had a hole in it, blown open at close range. He was dead before he hit the floor. Arthur fell to the floor, knee buckling, gun clattering out of an airless hand as he gasped and coughed and tried to clear his swimming head and spotty vision. Did he just kill someone? Was he now in a puddle of someone else's blood or his own? He held himself up with his elbows, surprised by the pain as glass cut into his arms.

"Phillip!" Josh cried out, rushing to his friend. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. His lungs were not functioning properly and Arthur could hear his mother begging for her life, could feel glass cutting his small body as he plummeted to the soft snow beneath the window sill, could see Mr Della preparing a noose for Arthur, could imagine Eames' face upon finding his body just as clearly as he could see Josh advancing on him, kicking Phillip's gun away. How could he have dropped it?

He wiped his face, clearing the blood from his nose and cheek from his mouth with a sleeve. Josh had his own gun out. This was it. His arm gave out, lying him on his side. He was going to die on the ground like a doll. He closed his eyes.

A shot fired. He waited for the pain, waited for the white light or the blackness or his parents or nothing, whatever it was that came with dying.

A callused hand grabbed his bruised face, turning it. An arm wrapped around his shoulders, lifting him. A warm chest, a worried squeeze. His head pillowed on a shoulder. A voice.

"Arthur! Open your eyes, darling, please," someone begged. "I can't be too late, open your eyes, Arthur! Arthur! Talk to me!"

He obliged, seeing a familiar, scruffy face. He smiled tiredly, ignoring the pull on his split lip. The light sting grounded him, reminding him that he couldn't be dead; Eames was here and you didn't feel pain if you were dead.

"Hey," he said weakly. He coughed. He hoped the red wasn't internal, just left over from his nose or lips.

Eames kissed him, gently and fiercely, trying to reassure them both that they were OK and that Arthur was alive. Arthur felt like crying. He kissed back, ignoring the taste of blood and sweat. Eames' arms tightened a fraction and he gasped against Eames' mouth.

"I'm sorry!" Eames said, loosening his grip and pulling far enough back to sweep worried eyes over Arthur's frame. "I didn't mean to hurt you... Jesus, Arthur... I'm sorry."

"You're early," Arthur breathed. Eames smiled back at him, a small, relieved laugh bursting out.

"Marcus called. I'm sorry I took so long, but I'm here now," Eames said. "I'd never have left if I thought--"

"I know."


	3. Seeing Spiders

In the end, it was Eames' connections that helped them the most. Eames' friends at the hospital had admitted him no questions asked, and the sutures, x-rays, casts, bandages and even the percocet would not be found missing in the log for a few weeks at least. Dr Tran, who knew Eames as Mr Chicago (Arthur didn't comment, not even when Eames introduced him as Ginger), told Arthur he was lucky to have such nice vitals and that he wouldn't even need observation. He was released after a dozen hours.

Arthur's cast was white, his skin odd, sallow and dappled with bruises against it. His button down was a soft grey, covering sutures, scars and skin, sleeves rolled up to accommodate his cast. Eames could see a trail of black stitches peeking out the sleeve of his right arm—his good arm—surrounded by smaller lacerations that had scabbed a dark, ugly brown.

Eames didn't care about how the bodies would be found or the investigation that would no doubt follow; there wasn't a trace of them in the apartment after he removed their clothes. The biggest clue was Arthur's blood, but he doubted the police would look that carefully at a gang-related crime scene. It was easy for Eames to use one of his many false identities to acquire last minute plane tickets, and even easier for Arthur to doctor the surveillance footage and check-in logs of the aeroport to not show their faces with Eames' laptop.

A connection in Cairo in an hour, and they were home free.

Arthur slept against him, head on shoulder like every other person who was asleep on this red-eye flight. For once, Arthur was sleeping fitfully, brow furrowed and muscles tensed. Eames rested his own rough cheek on Arthur's soft, wavy hair.

"If I could take away your dreams, I would," he whispered, closing his own eyes against the full rumble of the plane and of flying. He closed his eyes, and almost immediately his mind conjured up the image of Arthur's battered form lying next to the bodies of two thugs, bleeding and broken, and, Jesus, so still. Fuck. Someone needed to take his fucking dreams when they came for Arthur's.

He snapped his eyes open, heart pounding painfully even after a mere few seconds of remembering how Arthur had looked after two men tried to kill him (nearly succeeding, nearly gone, nearly lost, a voice in his head chanted). He calmed himself, but the odd sad tug he felt at leaving Mombassa didn't go. He'd felt the same way when he'd left for Brisbane, and then he'd had a ticket to come home. Somehow Mombassa had become home over the last few months. He'd always liked it, but he had always longed for his London home. Lately, he'd been longing for Mombassa, the smells and colours and food…

And Arthur. He looked down at Arthur's tense face, teeth worrying his lip in sleep.

Arthur. Alive.

He owed Marcus something fierce, that paranoid asshole. Eames had nearly died when he received the call. He couldn't remember the words exactly, just the general message "I've heard news," Marcus had said, "and they'll come for your kid tomorrow. They'll kill him and then you and I fucking warned you! I've booked you a ticket. Get going." He remembered he'd been making a post-job drink, dropping ice into a cheap hotel glass with a sharp clink clink. He didn't know yet who had threatened his Arthur, or why, but he'd called in a favour and he'd know by the time they landed in Stuttgart. It'd be fucking cold in Stuttgart. February was cold this far north.

He had only been to Germany a few times, because Germany is a toilet.

He hated Germany. The only reason they were headed there is because everyone else hated Germany too and wouldn't want to look for them there. He glanced down at Arthur once more, noting his chest was in fact still rising steadily, eyes dancing against his eyelids in sleep. He lowered his head once more, closing his eyes and breathing in Arthur's cool, soapy scent. His hair was soft against Eames' stubble, and he slept.

Real dreams were rare from years of PASIV training. Rare and vivid and fleeting. He dreamt of one hand guiding a shopping cart, his other held by another, cold. A subtle smile that no one saw. A broken window leaping from the floor and re-knitting itself against its own weight, a fire extinguished with a single, silent breath.

*

Arthur leant his forehead against the window, the cool surface soothing the dull throb of a bruise. He watched the greyish pink horizon, the smog and light of Europe blocking the sun. For some reason, he felt terribly fatalistic today. Death had this way of putting it all in perspective. He supposed it wasn't that surprising he felt so dissociative.

He'd killed someone. He'd killed a man named Phillip. He could rationalise away the guilt for a little while, it was self defense, it was kill or be killed, you had no choice, him or you, it was even a little bit of an accident.

But all he could see was that wedding ring. Mrs Phillip. Children. Parents. Siblings and friends. You didn't not love someone because they were a criminal. He knew that damn well. His parents had been criminals, Eames was a criminal. He supposed he himself was a criminal, if whoring counted in this discussion.

Knowing whoever had murdered his father had done so in self defence wouldn't have made him feel any better, if that had been the case. Who's life had he changed forever? Who would worry for hours when Phillip didn't come home to dinner? How old and how many kids were fatherless now? What had he done?

"You all right?" Eames asked. "Do you need anything?" Arthur tore his eyes away from the plane window.

"I'm not all right," he said simply. Eames' eyes were sad. Phillip was married, he wanted to explain. "You can't help that." He had a wife and I shot him.

"It was self—"

"I don't feel guilty for killing him," Arthur said, turning back to the window, away from the sympathy on Eames' face. But that wife just lost her husband. I did that.

"There wasn't another option," Eames said, sliding his hand into Arthur's unbroken one. The hand was warm and big and dry. Safe.

That should help, Arthur wanted to say. He wanted to say, that should make me feel better but all I can think is I'm no better than the men who killed my parents and took them from me. I took Phillip from everyone who loved him. I did that.

"I know," he said instead. Eames lifted his hand, kissing his bruised knuckles lightly. Arthur didn't reply. He pressed his head against the window once more and closed his eyes.

He was so tired.

*

Arthur woke to the softest of touches, the brush of fingers over his lips. He recognised the calluses, the pattern of Eames' breathing and smiled softly with a sigh. He didn't open his eyes, the touch familiar and safe for him to allow blind. The touch drew away and Arthur wondered if he'd imagined it. He wondered how much of the past with Eames was real and what was wishful thinking, just sandy details thrown to make shapes in the wind. He was warm and nearly asleep once more when the bedroom door loudly creaked on its ancient hinges. He reached out blindly in a panic, ignoring the ache it triggered in his shoulder.

Eames had assured him no one knew he owned a tiny, spartan apartment in Stuttgart, but Arthur felt his breath catch nonetheless when the bed was empty but for him.

"Eames?" he called, struggling with a useless arm, sore joints and muscles to sit. The dark of apartment let him see Eames' silhouette  at the door, lit from behind by the half-light pouring in the curtainless window in the front room.

"It's just me," the forger said from the doorway. "I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep." His voice sounded odd.

"Come to bed," Arthur replied. He stretched out his good hand, beckoning Eames back over.

"No, I'm just gonna putter about for a while, love," Eames said. "Go out and have a laugh maybe."

"Have a laugh?"

"I might go for a smoke," Eames clarified. Arthur disregarded the bizarre slang for the definite wetness of Eames' voice.

"Get over here," Arthur ordered, fully awake now and regretting sitting up without help as his body reminded him he hadn't exactly left Mombassa for shits and giggles. He'd never understood how injuries could happen so fast and heal so slow. Eames hurried over, no doubt mostly because he could see Arthur in pain.

"You should be resting," Eames said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"You should be resting," Arthur repeated in lieu of a retort. When Eames sat, the blue-hued light streaming in from the now-open door hit his face. "Eames!" Eames wiped his wet, red cheeks with a sleeve and Arthur grabbed the hem of his shirt when he tried to excuse himself.

"What's wrong?" Arthur demanded, holding on tight. Eames could have easily broken thru his weak, drug and pain-loosened grip, but he stilled to the requesting on his hem nonetheless. Arthur had watched as Eames packed their clothes and helped him out of the apartment, not once blinking an eye at the corpses or blood leaking from the younger man. He'd watched Eames lie to doctors and nurses without hesitation. He knew Eames had killed Josh with no remorse. What had happened tonight to make him, the steel joker he seemed to Arthur, cry?

"Nothing," Eames lied. "Nothing really."

"Bullshit," Arthur replied. "You can't lie to me."

"Sure I could," Eames said, attempting a grin. Arthur frowned at him. "You're so quiet when you sleep, darling," he amended when Arthur didn't reply or loosen his grip on Eames' shirt. "So quiet and still. All the other people I've been with snored or squirmed… Not you. Like a cushy statue."

"And that made you cry?" Arthur asked, cocking a brow. Eames chuckled low, looking down and playing with Arthur's spidery fingers. He'd always thought his hands looked odd and too thin, delicate almost, but Eames seemed to always be fascinated by them so he supposed they couldn't be that bad.

"No," Eames said simply. Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Then what did? Did you see a spider?"

"Your condescension is much appreciated, Arthur," Eames replied dryly. It made the older man crack a grin, and Arthur easily felt more at ease. He waited for an explanation. Finally he closed his hand around Eames' fingers.

"Eames," he prompted after a time. The older man took a deep breath (it shuddered a bit).

"It's just... I dreamed I wasn't in time. I was too late; that asshole had shot you," Eames began. Arthur shivered mentally, tightening his grip on Eames's hand. "He had shot you and I had lost you. Then I woke up and you're so quiet and still; for a second, I wasn't sure my dream was just a dream."

"It was just a dream," Arthur assured him. He pulled Eames lightly, waiting for him to climb onto the bed proper, his feet bare beneath his flannel sleep pants. "This is reality. I'm real, I promise you." He knew that for anyone who went near a PASIV, no dream was ever just a dream. He knew totems only did so much for you, only did so much for your sanity. His dad used to get confused constantly, insisting Arthur was just a projection and worthless to him until Mum could calm him down. He had no desire to see Eames loose grip like that, ever.

"I know," Eames whispered, closing his hand around Arthur's. "I know. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Then help me get back to sleep, come on," Arthur replied, tugging his hand within the forger's.

Eames helped Arthur lay back against the pillows at his urging, resting his own head against Arthur's chest.

"I'm real," Arthur said softly. "I didn't die. You didn't go crazy. You didn't slip into your own mind and never come out." Eames pulled Arthur close, firm as he dared to be with the younger man riddled in bruises.

"I don't think I can be happy without you anymore," Eames confessed.

"You'd have to move on," Arthur told him, carding his fingers thru surprisingly soft hair. "If I died or if I left." Eames shook his head slightly from where he lay. Arthur rested his cheek against Eames' head, tucked neatly against his heart, much like so many other things. Eames sniffed, which Arthur took to mean goodnight.

He waited until he heard Eames' breathing shift, waited until the furrow of tension between the older man's eyebrows faded away. He watched Eames' sleeping face, wondering how exactly he'd made the other man worry so much by coming close to death.

"I could be happy alone if you died," Arthur whispered. "I don't know if I'd move on or find someone but I could probably be happy. After a while, I think. I hope." Eames didn't reply. Arthur didn't really think he would. "It'd be the same sad kind of happy I could be without ice cream. You know." He closed his eyes.

"If we're going to get all hypothetical."


	4. Cigarettes and Air

They had always argued. They were too different to simply meld, but usually the arguments were quick. Usually they were mostly to see what snarky, clever comeback the other would respond with. But things escalated quickly when certain points are raised.    
It was the first time they fought.

They fought for many reasons. They fought because the flat was a mess. They fought because there were more important things with which to deal. They fought because Eames treated Arthur like a child. They fought because Arthur was a child, when it came down to it. They fought because that's not true, because Eames was the one who was immature, because it's too dangerous, because that isn't a good enough reason, because Arthur almost died, because he doesn't care, because he didn't die, because if something happens, because it won't, because Arthur can't know that! Mostly they fought because they both had every right to be stupid and selfish but Eames had no right to tell Arthur how he should feel, that they shouldn't try to make it work. Because Eames promised and now he was taking it back. Because Eames cared about Arthur too much to let him risk it, his heart or his life, because one would be taking advantage and both he couldn't bear. Because he was leading Arthur on and lying to him about maybe loving him was better than taking advantage, right? Because Arthur couldn't be his lover, that he should feel the same way. Because Arthur thought he did.

It wasn't until after Arthur said, "Fine" in a tone that suggested he was anything but, and until after he leaves, that Eames remembered he had wanted to be Arthur's first love, not his first heartbreak. He supposed dimly, as he stared out the window to the German street below, that he never should have let loose of that dream.

He was about 80% certain that he was in the wrong, completely. It had all started with a call from a source, someone with a job for a pointman. Someone unable to find anyone to take the job.

He'd told them he didn't know anyone. He didn't realise Arthur was in the kitchen and could hear every word he said.

"Why teach me how do do all that research if you don't want me to use the skills?" the kid had demanded.

"I do want you to use it," he'd replied, like an idiot, "but when you're old enough."

He'd accused Arthur of growing up to fast. Arthur rightly pointed out being a child is harder than being an adult when you can't turn to anyone to take care of you. Arthur had said something, he couldn't even remember (he could), and things had escalated quickly. They had never had a full out argument like this. He remembered feeling so angry, so inadequate, so unable to explain himself. Words came out of his mouth from angry, worried places he didn't know he'd been hiding words.

"I didn't have any options back then, I didn't know how to get out of the situation—"

"How the hell are you going to know how to get out of a job gone bad if you can't figure out how to run away from the keepers of whores!"

"Do you think I didn't fucking try?"

"Not hard enough, clearly."

Maybe he was 95% sure he was completely in the wrong. How do you even justify saying that to someone with Arthur's past? To anyone, really? The only justification he had was that he was in the right at the beginning of the fight. Arthur wasn't ready for working in the dreamworld. Who knew what type of mess his subconscious was?

Arthur tried to explain that he couldn't be dependant on Eames, that he wasn't a child, that he didn't need Eames' permission to find work, that Eames' was being a coward if he thought just because Arthur almost died (but he didn't, did he, in the end?) that he should be hidden away from the world of impossibility, that he wasn't afraid—

"I'm not afraid!" Eames had yelled, his violent gestures making Arthur flinch infinitesimally despite himself. "I'm being fucking reasonable, here! You are a child, Arthur, a child, and you are my responsibility!"

"I thought I was your friend," Arthur had put in softly after Eames had angrily hit the wall. "Maybe more. I thought—"

"No, you're only a baby," Eames snapped, spinning to face the younger man, the words falling wrong and sounding better in his head. "And I don't want you. Not like that."

That's when Arthur had left. Eames had only been trying to protect him from getting hurt...

Because he almost _died_ in February, in Mombassa.

He almost fucking died. Eames couldn't quite deign the idea of that happening. Maybe the image of Jo's body lingered, maybe it was Marcus' numerous reminders of the dangers, maybe it was just that Eames was a possessive asshole. Either way, Arthur had stormed out. He'd forgotten his mittens. Maybe he'd forget just as easily how awful of a person Eames was.

Somehow he doubted he'd be that lucky.

*

Getting lost in downtown Stuttgart was a quick cure for anger, he found, and he didn't think that hearing what Eames' said to him would hurt as much as it did. He knew he shouldn't let it hurt him, that words were designed to hurt and he couldn't let them bother him. Clearly, Arthur had misinterpreted everything. But looking back on his almost-eidetic memory, he didn't know how. All the good morning kisses, the pet names, the flirting, the fairy-tale dates. All when Eames didn't actually want him at all. He'd known, really, he had. He'd known that someday everything would come crashing down and that Eames would tire of him and he'd be tossed away like a used toy.

And once he was outside the apartment, Arthur didn't really know what to do or where to go. Maybe he was a child and too reckless and stupid to be on his own, just like Eames' said. Maybe he couldn't handle himself in a dream if he couldn't even handle Eames.

But how was this so hard? Arthur managed a vicious winter and a sweltering summer on the streets of Toronto alone at thirteen and fourteen. He'd kept himself off drugs and tried to refuse customers who refused to be safe (sometimes they were just bigger than he, and the argument was lost quickly). Given the options and the situation, he'd done well.

How was it he felt so lost now? Realistically, he reminded himself, lighting a cigarette from the pack he kept in the left pocket of his coat, you have to go back to the apartment. He didn't have the skill to make any IDs like the ones he had stupidly left in the apartment (as tho he had time to search for things) nor did he currently have the patience to pick enough pockets to stay out here overnight, not when he had a perfectly good bed back in the apartment.

A bed he'd have to share with Eames.

Arthur exhaled blue smoke, his clouds heavy against the cold, drifting into incoherent shapes and swirls slowly. First day of spring. Shouldn't it be even a little bit warm? He was gaining concerned glances from the shopkeepers and café patrons. Standing on one corner for over an hour was a bit bizarre, he admitted, twirling his fag dimly. He didn't speak German and the last thing he wanted was to be arrested for vagrancy. As fun as that sounded.

It wasn't as if one fight meant they were done forever, after all. His parents were the only real example of a relationship he had, and while they'd had their issues, they always came back together after arguments. His mother even used to storm out like he had.

It was just… Going back meant facing Eames. It meant facing everything he said. Admitting he was wrong, Eames was right and that maybe things would have to be a bit different now. Like maybe he'd have to look to Eames for permission more rather than thinking he was an adult in his own right.

He threw the smoky filter to the snow.

Picking the lock seemed rude, he thought to himself, staring at the locked door after mounting the stairs. He hovered in the ancient doorway (he was almost certain this building was older than Canada, let alone his childhood mobile home). He lifted his hand, pausing before knocking. This shouldn't be hard, he thought. Knock. Why was he nervous? He was nervous and his scarf was to tight and he wanted to run and to flee, all the way back to South Gillies and the woods and the streets he knew too well in Toronto.

But that wasn't something he was willing to do. He wasn't a coward. He had to face Eames, face all the ugly words he'd said and heard, face the fact he wasn't wanted, face the fact it couldn't be changed.  He felt, standing in an old doorway with old fears, like he was all alone in the dark, stretching his arms up to heaven, hoping his sins are forgiven. He had come too far to know where he stood now, too far from home.

He made to knock, almost hitting Eames' nose when the door swung open.

Arthur had seen a movie once, as a child, and he found the scene after the fight jumping into his mind. The girl had found the male lead in the rain after their supposed downfall, her shirt clinging to her, near transparent, her hair falling in perfect, wet spirals. He'd lowered his umbrella, shoulders dark with wet, eyes bright and gorgeous. She'd jumped into his arms, cutting off his apologies and kissing him and they made up and everything was all right again.

But Eames reeked of cigarettes and whisky, his eyes red-rimmed and dull. Kissing him was the last thing Arthur wanted to do. His stomach twisted at him.

"Did you know there's something about Germany that turns British people into giant asshats and you shouldn't listen to them?" Eames asked, leaning his head against the top corner of the doorframe, looking the very picture of repentance.

"You're drunk," Arthur pointed out, curling his toes nervously within his boots.

"But I make more drunk sense drunk than sense I make sober," Eames told him. Arthur didn't mention the mangled sentence. "I was wrong to tell you you're a baby. Child."

"I am a child," Arthur conceded, looking down. "I left and I didn't know where to go or what to do, and if I wasn't a child, I'd have known—"

"I didn't know where to do or what to go, and I didn't leave the flat," Eames pointed out. "You went for a walk and I fell off a wagon. This is home, Arthur. Of course you were lost outside of it."

"Come inside," the British man said softly. Arthur hesitated in the doorway. The air of the apartment was heavy with the remnants of words said and feelings hurt and the blue, melancholy smoke of cigarettes.

"You're drunk," Arthur repeated, watching Eames weave his way to the chesterfield. The sofa here was red, a faded brick in colour and texture.

"I get drunk when I'm sad."

"Why were you sad?" he asked, slipping out of his jacket in the strange warmth of the home.

"Because we fought," Eames answered simply. "You got angry. I got angry. You got hurt."

"I'm fine," Arthur lied, just like he lied when he'd been limping back when they'd first landed in Germany and Eames had been concerned. "I'm sorry," he blurted in the sudden silence. "For saying what I said. For calling you a coward and a hypocrite. For storming out. It wasn't really the best way to go about it—"

"You're not the once who got pissed drunk," Eames dismissed, watching Arthur sneak towards the couch nervously. And I said bad stuff too."

"Come," Eames ordered after Arthur continued to stand, his frozen hands coming back to life painfully. "Sit." He patted the hard chesterfield. "Sit."

He curled on the couch beside the forger, pressing his face into a familiar neck and breathing the heady scent of Eames' hidden under smoke and liquid. The air felt clearer now, the smoke and the words filtering out the cracked window. Eames' took his hands into his own warm, dry and safe ones, tisking at their tempature and beginning to rub life back into them, cheek rested atop Arthur's head, listening to the other's breathing.

Maybe he didn't need to slip away to South Gillies. Maybe he could be happy and safe here, if he stuck it out and worked at this before any job. He closed his eyes.


	5. The Beginning

We need to get the hell out of Germany," Eames said, tossing the grocery bag down on the counter. Arthur turned from the stove and his amazing-smelling concoction of god-knows-what. He gave Eames a welcoming smile.

"Why's that?" Arthur asked, turning away again to stir. Eames left the brown bag on the counter for Arthur to sift thru as he peeled off his rain jacket and draped it over a chair. "Hang that up, or it will still be wet the next time you need it. I'll be damned if I'll listen to you complain about that again."

Eames scooped the jacket up with a sigh, moving to the closet. "We need to get of Germany," he began again, "because it is time to begin an adventure." Arthur tapped his spoon against the rim of the pot, laying it next to the stove. He crossed to the groceries and tossed the paper bag of bread lightly into the basket that served as its home.

"Elucidate," he ordered. Eames grinned, standing back at the counter. Elucidate, his mind echoed. Who used that word in casual conversation?  Arthur picked bananas off the top of the bag, holding them bemusedly.

"Why are you giving the bananas such a strange look?" Eames questioned after a moment, distracted. "I know they're a pinch green; they'll ripen."

"No, I don't have a problem with the bananas," Arthur said. "I'm certain they're fine."

"Then why are you glaring at them?" Eames asked. Arthur frowned.

"I am not glaring at them, Mr Eames," he said bitingly. "I do not glare at fruit products." Eames pulled a sarcastic face of acceptance. "Where do I put these?" He hefted the bananas lightly and Eames frowned.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I've never dealt with bananas before. Do they go in the fridge—"

"You've never had a banana before?" Eames repeated. Arthur shrugged, moving to grab the fridge handle. "Don't put them in the fridge! Are you mad!"

"Where am I supposed to put them?" Arthur gestured at the neat space of the kitchen vaguely with the hand not holding yellow fruit.

"They're bananas," Eames pointed out, indicating the counter with a large hand. "All they ever do is chill out on other people's counters."

"They should be a bowl or something," Arthur said petulantly, glaring at the fruit once more. "With other fruits, I think. In a bowl by themselves, they'd seem lonely."

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Eames began, bypassing that particular, bizarre statement. "But you are aware you have to peel them, right?"

"Yes, I am aware I have to peel them," Arthur sneered.  Eames snorted.

"You're acting condescending to me, when you're the one who has never eaten a banana before?" he asked.

"Point," Arthur allowed after a moment. He placed them on the counter, next to the bread basket.

"Anyway," Eames began again as Arthur fished cans of soup from the bag. "The adventure. Getting us the hell out of Germany. You've got a job offer." Arthur's dark eyes sought out Eames's so quick, Eames thought a magnet was involved.

"You're serious?" he asked. "You put out word that you knew someone looking for work?" Eames nodded, taking the small bag of uncooked pasta from Arthur's listless hands and placing it in the cupboards at his knees.

"Yeah," he replied slowly. "Yeah. I know it means a lot to you that you start getting a handle on the business, that you start, you know, supporting yourself a bit more, so, yeah. I did." Arthur smiled softly, the grin barely there as he absently fished things out of the grocery bag. "It's an old friend of mine, a guy named Peter Claire. He says it'll be an easy job. I'll tag along if the client will put me on payroll; if not, you'll be on your own."

"You don't want me to take the job," Arthur said. It wasn't a question. He didn't even try to hide it as one. Eames shook his head, bracing his palms on the counter. A jar of honey lay forgotten in Arthur's thin hands. He avoided the younger man's gaze by tracing his eyes over the ever-so-faint, silvery scar that ran across the back of the other's palm.

"No," he answered honestly. "I don't want you anywhere near anything even potentially dangerous. But you're an adult in the ways that count, like you said. And I'm not going to act superior or ike a parent or something and tell you what to do, and I don't want to fight like last time—"

Eames wasn't looking, so Arthur's lips on his took him by surprise. The kiss was gentle and sweet. Arthur tasted of green peppers overlaying the acrid sting of tobacco.

"Thank you," Arthur said softly. "I know you want me safe. I know you're compromising with this. I'll make it up to you somehow," he promised. Eames shook his head, taking one of Arthur's hands.

"Don't. I don't want you to feel indebted to me," he countered. "I want us to be equals. I'm tired of holding you back all the time."

"You don't, really," Arthur put in. "You've taught me a lot about being a real person."

"You were always real," Eames said. "You never needed to change."

*

Eames was not nervous. Twenty-nine year old men did not get nervous. He glanced over at Arthur; the little bugger looked calm as a peach. His hair was combed back out of his eyes made him look surprisingly severe and a tad older. He'd worked with Peter before; he could be trusted with Arthur. He wouldn't sell them out the same way Josh had been bought to find him, find Arthur, kill them. Peter was more trustworthy. It'd be fine. And if it wasn't fine, Arthur knew the escape plan.

"The second you feel threatened—" Eames began, only to be interrupted by the young man at his side. The hallway was empty, the white and beige walls making the noir of Arthur's suit seem even darker.

"The second that happens, I'll bail," Arthur finished. "I know. Calm down." Eames plucked at his business wear, not sure why he thought this was a good idea. If something went wrong, if Arthur got hurt, he'd never forgive himself. He hadn't yet forgiven himself for the last time.

"I am calm," he grumbled. He could see Arthur smirking out of the corner of his eye. "If you even just don't like Peter," he reminded Arthur. "We can drop off grid so fast."

"It will be fine, Eames," Arthur repeated. "I want to do this. You trust me, right?"

"Of course," Eames said easily. "But—"

"You trust Peter?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then it will be fine," Arthur told him. "This will be fine. Besides, this is a planning session; we won't even be going under today. I doubt we'll do much other than be briefed on what he knows so far."

"I hate it when you're right," Eames said. Arthur merely nodded. "Silence? No witty retort?" Eames questioned with a grin. "Are you getting into character?" Arthur chuckled. The lift ringed and they climbed in.

"I don't like elevators," Eames remarked absently. "I just feel like I should crouch and brace myself for the drop, you know?"

"But statistically speaking," Arthur began, and Eames rolled his eyes, "you're far more likely to die on a set of stairs. On average, six people a year die in elevator-related accidents; just a little under two thousand people die each year falling down stairs. An elevator has at least six cables each individually capable of supporting one hundred and twenty five percent of the maximum capacity, four emergency brakes and at the bottom of the shaft is this giant hydraulic spring to soften the blow in case everything else fails. Stairs, on the other hand, are stairs. You're lucky to have a handrail."

"Why do you know all that?" Eames asked, appalled.

"When I was homeless, I spent a lot of time in libraries," he replied. "Did you know that Isaac Asimov is the only author to have a book in every Dewey-decimal category?"

"It's very odd that you do," Eames pointed out. "How do the six people die if they have all the emergency safety what's-its?"

"The accidents almost always have something to do with the door, but I'm not quite sure how that works out," Arthur said. "I feel like I'd have to try to get caught in the door lethally."

"Well, people will find ways to be killed by just about anything, darling," Eames said. Arthur blinked at him.

"You're not going to call me "darling" in front of Peter, are you?" Arthur asked. "Or anything other than Arthur?"

Eames shrugged and said, "I wasn't not going to call pet names."

"Come on," Arthur complained. "This is my first job. Don't ruin it. Act professional." Eames considered the order as the lift doors began to slide open. Arthur preceded him out the door.

He took the opportunity to slap his young counterpart's ass. It was simply more fun than acting professional. The younger man jumped slightly.

"Goddamn it, Eames!" Arthur snapped. Eames chuckled; he wasn't nervous anymore.

*

"If he has a military background and a militarized subconscious then we can't simply hope that we won't trigger defenses," Arthur said to Peter.

Eames watched Peter, the dark, terrifying-looking six foot six man he was, sprawled across the office chair on the other side of the table from Arthur and Eames. The rickety table was covered with the little information provided by the clients on the mark. For all the man had a military background, the job was, as promised, simple corporate espionage. Eames hadn't expected the briefing session to be as long as it was. He hadn't expected Arthur to argue with Peter and be taken seriously, as if he was one of the best, the kind of person with whom Peter usually worked and not some seventeen-year-old former prostitute. Arthur spotted each of the errors the plan contained as if he some veteran of dreaming and not someone who should still be learning the ropes. Eames was kind of impressed Arthur had the balls to speak up at all; he himself hadn't argued at all on his first job and it'd gone to hell because he didn't point anything out because he was new and didn't think he had the right.

Arthur tapped the itinerary of the dream he had in front of him. "This plan, if we trip a mental alarm, means we bail on the job and leave Barlier with full knowledge of what was just attempted on him, if not by whom."

"He's the Director of Development of a weapons company, not someone who's ever fought at anything," Peter replied coolly. Eames dimly tried to decide if the Boston accent was ever attractive on anyone as Arthur prepared his retort.

"He is married to a soldier, he grew up on army bases, and he has spent three of the last six weeks pretty much locked up with the Secretary of Defense in the West Wing in DC discussing God knows what!" Arthur pointed out. "He'll have the mind of someone who's military and we'll need to work around that to an extent far more than we currently are planning."

"He's not military," Peter repeated. "He's not even CEO of his company. He doesn't have the power for much backlash should the job get into a SNAFU."

"I think you're drastically underestimating the chance of escalation beyond the point you say we'll reach," Arthur said.

"Interesting," Peter replied. Eames let his eyes ping-pong back and forth between the two as silence rang for a moment.

"Thank you," Arthur said when Peter seemed to expect a reply.

"And how old are you again?" Arthur sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"All right," he conceded.

"I'll give you a few days to pull up enough information to change my mind," Peter allowed after a moment. "Eames tells me you're good at what you do. Prove it."

Eames watched as Arthur quietly nodded, vacating Peter's office when Peter so gestured. Eames gave the man a wink as he walked by. Arthur graced him with a small smile (probably since his back was to Peter and he couldn't see).

The door clicked shut and Peter nodded approvingly at Eames.

"Where did you snatch this toddler up?" he asked. "I like him."

"Magician never reveals his secrets," Eames said proudly, spreading his hands. Peter nodded understandingly.

"So you robbed a day care, then?"


	6. The Opposite of Forever

"You did well today," Eames said quietly, watching Arthur brush his teeth from a leaning posture at the door frame. Arthur met the older man's eyes in the cheap, hotel mirror. Eames marvelled dimly at how powerful the dark gaze seemed. More than that, he wondered how such gentle eyes could seem so cutting on a whim and captivate him. Arthur's hair was washed free of the gel that had held it in place all day and his clean, sharp scent was potent in the steamed air. Arthur's thin wrist twisted the toothbrush and Eames dimly supposed he shouldn't find acts of dental hygiene attractive, but Arthur had this quiet grace about him that Eames both admired and wanted to crack.  
  
"I didn't do much," Arthur said after spitting out minty foam. "All we have is a rough plan and an idea of how to get to Barlier. Neither are sure things."

"You got enough done to impress Peter," Eames replied. "Impressing Peter is good for your reputation in this business." Arthur considered that as he rinsed his mouth.

"Is that so?" he asked softly. Eames nodded. "I'm not sure I'm safe in this hotel." Ice settled in his heart quicker than it did in the North Pole. Before Eames could really, truly panic, Arthur continued, "Last time I was in a hotel, I was kidnapped by a strange man and taken halfway across the world. Just déjà vu, you know?" Arthur grinned at him in the mirror, turning to giggle at Eames's assuaged and unnecessary fear. The Brit gaped at his counterpart's shit-eating grin for a moment, calming his poor heart.

Eames snorted. "You scared me for a second there! You can't joke about that. You are just the worst type of person," he complained when Arthur's cheeky grin didn't fade, pushing off the door frame and using his bulk to crowd Arthur against the counter.

"Is that so?" he repeated, letting Eames box him in with a rather pacific security.

"It is," Eames replied. "Besides, I've taught you how to shoot a gun since then and you're taller than me now. I'm pretty sure you could take me," he joked.

"I think you've got about twenty kilos on me," Arthur said, dancing his fingers over Eames's triceps. "I also seem to lose most of our arguments. I don't see why fights would differ."

"I cheat," Eames offered. "So it's not as if you have a chance."

"Of course not," Arthur hummed absently and Eames yanked the teen down for a kiss by his sleep shirt. He could feel the slight seamed scar of a split lip against his lips, not quite healed. Beneath layers of minty toothpaste, there was merely a hint of Arthur's own taste; Eames deepened the kiss to search it out. One of them made a tiny noise in the back of their throats but Eames couldn't care who as long as he could just stay pressed against Arthur like this for a little while longer. Arthur shifted, pressing a thigh between Eames's legs and the faint, teasing pressure and friction broke Eames concentration as his heart skipped.

"Fuck," he moaned, tearing his mouth from Arthur's to try and drag air into his lungs properly.    
"I will if you want," Arthur murmured, grinding against Eames once more, his mouth biting and soothing at the other's neck. Eames stifled another groan as the seventeen year old tempted him with his ministrations.

"A hickey for tomorrow, Mr Let's-Be-Professional?" Eames said, trying to hide his evident arousal. His attempts were in vain. "Slow down." He pulled Arthur back.

"I am a professional," Arthur reminded him. "I do not leave marks as crude as hickeys." He captured Eames's mouth once more as Eames pulled his hips away from the delicious friction. He pushed Arthur's hips back, bracing him against the counter. Arthur may be taller now, but Eames was still stronger.

"We need to stop," he said again. "We can't do this now."

"You cock-tease!" Arthur accused, pulling Eames's at wrists and trying to urge him to get return to his former position.

"I'm the cock-tease?" he demanded. "You're the gorgeous piece of jailbait running about and necking me."

"Maybe I'll just jump you in the shower tomorrow morning," Arthur sighed, rubbing his nimble thumbs in circles on Eames's wrists. "If you're already naked, there's no way you'll keep blue balling me." Eames laughed.   "If you come in here while I'm naked as so much as look at me, I will not grant you even a kiss until your eighteenth birthday," Eames threatened. "I will stuff you in a box and mail you to my aunt so you don't get anymore ideas."

"That implies that you'll finally give up on this whole abstinence thing on September ninth," Arthur replied. He smiled softly. Eames couldn't resist the gentle dimples that formed, breaking Arthur's loose grip to brush the backs of his fingers over Arthur's cheekbones.

"Well," Eames murmured, lowering his hand before Arthur could lean into his touch. "You won't be jailbait forever."

*

"I think the only way to get the plans is to give him the feeling of control without actually handing him any control," Arthur said, laying a folder labelled only with a swipe of orange highlighter upon the table. The murky light of a rainy noon filtered thru the windows of the rented, musty office space. Peter and Eames were seated at the only clear table in the workspace; the rest littered with papers and printers and computers. Arthur remained standing, starting up a laptop. "He's an important man, CEO or not, and important men enjoy feeling important. If we can get him to feel comfortable sharing with us, then the chances of us setting off his mental alarms will be much lower."

"Easier said than done," Eames commented. Peter nodded softly in agreement.

"Not necessarily," Arthur replied, pacing slightly as he talked. "Letting a man feel in control without actually giving him control is a small, easy skill. Important people are used to thinking that no one would dare cross them; if played right, the idea that he's being played won't occur on even the deepest level. All we have to do is maintain that reality within a dream. We have to be subtle."

"How?" Peter asked.

"Well, think," Arthur replied. "We need the designs for his new missiles. O&B wants to steal them before he gets too far ahead of the game. It's simple. How is he planning to reveal this design when he deems it ready?"

"Probably in the same grand manner he's revealed everything else," Eames guessed. "He does these great, fancy presentations, Peter, they're quite something."

"It'll be a bit late then," Peter remarked dryly.

"Not if we give him a dress rehearsal," Arthur said simply. "He's a performer, first and foremost. As a performer, all we need to do is give him a stage."

"And he'll expect to unveil his secrets," Eames finished as Arthur's plan dawned on him. "His subconscious won't suspect something's up. He'll expect it and we won't set off any alarms."

"Exactly," Arthur agreed, leaning over his laptop once more. "He's webcast some of his larger presentations before and like anything you put online, it's always there. It just takes some digging." The laptop was connected to a projector and a high-quality video popped onto the blank stretch of drywall behind Arthur, soundless. "The sound file is corrupt but there are transcripts available for press use so we can find his formula of reveal and anticipate it. We can plan light cues and stage set based on his patterns in the last four webcast presentations."

Peter leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table, watching the display of the new armoured cars released six months ago.

"He creates beautiful products, doesn't he?" Peter said. Arthur shrugged, watching the video. Barlier was pacing the truck, gesturing grandly at both the weaponry and sleek, stealth design of the vehicle itself. A spot light followed him about the stage, sharp and clear.

"He's very well protected," Arthur agreed dimly. "His apartment is too secure for us to sneak in without him being aware. His driver is always the same man and he never takes taxis. He's rarely alone. Like anyone, we have to get to him in a position where he won't know if it was a lucid dream or if he simply drifted off."

"So how do we get to him?" Eames asked. "How do we set it up?" Arthur lowered himself into his chair opposite Eames and Peter, the video still playing behind him. Barlier seemed to be pausing for applause.  "If he's that isolated, he must have a defense bigger than mental."

"He's afraid of dentists," Arthur began. Peter snorted loudly. Eames couldn't help but chuckle at the bizarre-ity statement. "This is relevant!" Arthur protested. "Sedation dentistry." He clicked at the computer again, and the video feed faded into a website proclaiming the ease and simplicity of the process. "It'll only take convincing, maybe a bribe."

"Let's infiltrate," Peter said. "When is his next appointment?"

"June third," Arthur said. "It's here in the north of Boston, two weeks and three months before his next presentation. It should be enough time." Peter nodded again.

"All right, tiny," he said. "You've convinced me. This is how we'll get to him." Arthur frowned.

"I'm taller than both of you," he pointed out shortly. "I'm not tiny."

*

Arthur watched Eames tap his fingers on the rim of his coffee cup. It had been three weeks since his first job had rapped, and that long since he'd seen Eames. They'd scattered after the job, neither really looking forward to leaving the other alone, but also not willing to risk endangering the other.

It had been far too long since they'd seen each other, far too long indeed. O&B released their new missile plans and Barlier had fired several assistants with accusations of leaking information. Arthur's plan had worked: the man didn't have so much as an inkling that he himself was the leak.

Eames was tanned. Arthur knew he was headed south from Boston, but he didn't know how far he had gone. If the gaudy Hawaiian shirt was a clue, Eames had gone south for palm trees.

Arthur had gone home. His old house in South Gillies was still tucked away on an overgrown path not too far from Mile Hill and no one lived there now. It was in disrepair and it was too surreal to see his childhood home without his dad around to help him rebuild computers and toasters and TVs, without his mother's awful perfume and wonderful dresses. He ended up renting a car with his brand new credit card, knowing he'd actually be able to pay the bill with his share of O&B's dirty money (Admittedly the card didn't say his actual name on it, but he felt kind of cool nonetheless), and driving the familiar route to Sioux Lookout and enjoying the waterside and the food at the Inn near the old hospital.

But now he was back in Toronto, walking Roncesvalles Avenue to find Eames. He was predictably resting upon the wooden window sill outside the Film Buff and drinking coffee out of a white take away cup emblazoned with a cherry.

He sneaked down into the video shop while Eames was suitably distracted by a passing, adorable puppy taking an interest in him. Why was it called a video shop, he wondered. They only had DVDs.

 He ignored the movies and approached the ice cream counter he'd been to a few times as a kid. Each time he was here he'd always chosen the chocolate frog flavour, which was actually just mint with chocolate chips but he liked pretending it was actually made of frogs. When he was younger. He scanned the flavours as he waited in line, the place a lot busier than it seemed when he was a kid. He spotted one sign he'd never noticed before and smiled.

"A scoop on banana please," he requested when the elder proprietor smiled at him. She nodded and elected a waffle cone.

"It's going to be on me, sugar," she told him, scooping out a large cone.

"No, no, I couldn't," he protested.

"You're Calvin and Cecelia's son, aren't you?" she asked. He blinked at her, hand clutching his two dollars fifty in his pocket. "Art, right? Do you remember me?"

"I don't think... Mrs Lynn!" he declared, vaguely recalling her. It had been a century, surely, since he'd been in this area of the city, to be sure.

"Yes," she agreed with a smile, passing him his cone. "I used to buy from your parents before they stopped selling, you must have been about yay high." She held her hand at mid-chest and Arthur smiled, his recollection of her flooding back. She had always been positively lovely with him. "No more than ten. How old are you now? Fifteen, sixteen?"

"Seventeen, ma'am," he corrected politely. "But I'll be eighteen in three months."

"No!" she protested. "Don't that make me feel old! It's been that long?"

"I believe so," he replied. She smiled at him once more, shaking her head fondly.

"And how are your folks, then?" she asked. "Surely your dear mum isn't as old as me? That Cecelia could never age."

"She didn't get a chance to get very old, ma'am," Arthur said quietly. "She passed away four years ago." Mrs Lynn seemed properly surprised and saddened.

"Oh my," she hummed, sympathy all over her lined face. "And you're doing all right?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "I've been doing real well. Travelled to Kenya, Germany and Boston this year," he offered lightly, enjoying the deliciousness of an honest half-truth.

"And with your quick mind you must be near fluent in Swahili and German then," she chuckled.

"Just French," he said with a smile. "My mum was a Quebecker at heart."

"That she was, Art," Mrs Lynn agreed. Someone behind Arthur sighed slightly. "Well, I best get these people moving," she said. "It's always busy in here these days. But you stop by soon, you hear?" He promised he would before mounting the stairs to find Eames still sitting on the sill.

"You'll never guess who I just ran into," Arthur began, licking his cone. Eames's eyes snapped around to him.

"Monica?" he guessed, smiling wide at Arthur. He stood, granting Arthur a kiss made chaste by the presence of the six year olds with their parents enjoying the ice cream on such a hot day.

"Who's Monica?" Arthur asked, settling down on the sill once more, sitting close to Eames, their hands tangled together.

"I'm sure I don't know, Arthur," Eames replied. "But you told me I'd never guess. I didn't give it a real try."

"I ran into an old friend of my parents, that's all," Arthur said, tasting his ice cream. "Small world."

"How are you?" Eames asked, voice low. Arthur swallowed against his suddenly dry mouth as Eames looked down for a second before giving Arthur a look that said either I missed you, I want you or I need you.

Arthur licked his cone slowly, watching Eames's eyes follow his movements. He replied, "I've been fine."

"It's hot," Eames said dimly, watching Arthur taste his treat once more. Eames's own tongue wet his lips and he shifted on the bench.

"Yes," Arthur agreed. Eames stared at his mouth a little more before meeting his eyes.

"Maybe we should get inside," he offered. "I don't want to have to lug my bag with me all day." Arthur looked at Eames's duffle. Eames took Arthur's wrist and guided the ice cream to his own mouth, tasting the frozen treat slowly.

"Unf," he said, surprised. "That's delicious. It's yellow, I thought it was lemon."

"It's a new flavour," Arthur said softly.


	7. Remembered

Eames's hand rested on his knee in the taxi cab, hot thru the fabric of Arthur's corduroys. The hotel seemed very far away, Arthur mused as he tried to focus on the streets flashing by and not on the fact that Eames's broad thigh was pressed against his, their shoulders brushing after nearly a month apart. So far, their reunion was going better than it had the last time they had been reunited; they certainly weren't on their way to the hospital. The hot summer afternoon had turned into a rainy, warm evening and the sidewalks held scare amounts of people, holding umbrellas and newspapers above their heads as they huddled under awnings, searching for buses and streetcars and taxis. 

He didn't quite know how things had become what they were. He'd resigned himself to not living past twenty long ago, marking living each month as a success. Now, everything and every possibility seemed endless. He didn't know what it was about being with Eames that, besides the obvious improved quality of life and not being a prostitute, made him so freaking happy. Instead of avoiding abuse of substance or he himself, he spent most of his days trying not to get too caught up in his partner in crime.

"Can I ask you something that might seem a little off topic?" Arthur asked, tangling his hand with Eames's on his legs. Eames turned his eyes on him and there was something hidden there, behind the stormy-grey irises, that made Arthur want to capture the moment with some sort of mental camera.

"Of course," Eames replied. His face was clean shaven, unusual for him. Arthur kind of enjoyed the different air the lack of stubble lent him, if only for the fact that the alien look of it only added to how acutely aware Arthur was that it had been far too long since they'd last met.

"Why did you take me?" Eames blinked, frowning slightly.

"Too off topic, you've lost me," he said. "From where did I take you? You got here before me."

"No, I meant that you took me from Velvet," Arthur explained. "You took me from my life before. Why? Why did you do that?"

"What brought this up?" Eames questioned, pulling his hand free and shifting to face Arthur best he could within the confines of the taxi and the way Arthur's long legs hogged the very limited leg room. The way he shifted drew Arthur's attention to the fact he was, yet again, not wearing his seatbelt.

"I'm home," Arthur said simply. "I lived that reality here. Just made me wonder why."

"I dunno," Eames admitted, shrugging.

"There had to be a reason!" Arthur complained. "Stuff like that doesn't just happen; I'm not that lucky."

"You were just a kid," Eames pointed out, turning away. "You can't think so little of me that you think I'd just use you and toss you out."

"I don't think that now of you, no," Arthur agreed. "I haven't for ages. But at the time? Sure." Eames glared and Arthur hurried to correct himself.

"I just mean, why wouldn't I think that?" he questioned. "Hundreds of people knew I was too young to be having sex. I wasn't even fifteen yet when I started. I don't look my age now, and I'm a healthier weight, height and I dress nicely. Lots of people knew I was a kid and tossed me aside after they finished." Eames shifted uncomfortably at that and Arthur looked away. He knew Eames didn't like thinking about that period of his life. He fancied it because Eames's protectiveness carried over to being irrationally jealous or resentful of his former clientele but was more likely attributed to the fact Eames was a firm believer that fifteen year olds should not be having sex, consensual or not. "Even tho I know you're better than that, I still don't understand it," he added softly after a moment. "I just want to understand."

"I was a runaway once too, you know," Eames said finally. "Though I had it a lot easier than you did. It was hard, ducky; I was a kid and it was awful. I can't imagine what I would have done if I'd been in your situation. I don't know if I'd have managed with that."

"Why did you leave?" Arthur wondered. "You had a family."

"Not really," Eames corrected. "My father was the violent sort. Your dad was a criminal with good parenting skills and mine was a solicitor with good drinking skills. He was a terrible dad. My mum left when I was fourteen and as soon as I could, I got the hell out of there as well."

"Why didn't your mum take you with her?" Arthur asked, appalled. Eames shrugged, looking intently out the window at the slow passing of Toronto streets in evening traffic.

"He was bad with her too," he explained. "I tried to take as much as I could for her but in the end, she just wanted more from life than he could give—than we could give. She left and I had to try to take care of him." Arthur snatched up Eames's hand and kissed his fingers quickly, trying to give his sympathy, or condolences, or whatever it was that Eames needed and he had. "I don't think she ever really wanted kids anyway. My folks weren't the parenting type and it wasn't like they were ever soul mates. They got married because I came along."

"That sucks," Arthur offered after a moment of heavily silence. Eames smiled sadly, looking back at Arthur.

"Excellent use of vocabulary, Arthur." He rolled his eyes.

"How horrendously abysmal and appalling. My heart cries with sympathy," he corrected himself sarcastically. Eames chuckled.

"I know how hard it is to make it on your own, Arthur," he continued after a moment. "I guess I didn't want… If you didn't have to make it alone, why should you have to try? Just because you didn't ask for my help doesn't mean you didn't need it." The cabbie was staring at them judgementally in the rear view mirror at a long red light at King and Peter. Arthur didn't know if it was because of their same-sex, or their obvious age gap, or the fact that they were casually discussing child abuse and prostitution, but he didn't really care.

He leaned in and kissed Eames then because he wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss away everything bad. Eames had certainly tried to do the same for him.

The cabbie scoffed but Arthur couldn't find it within him to give a shit. The cabbie could be as disgusted by their actions as he wished. Arthur kind of loved their actions, so he supposed their driver could suck it up.

And maybe he'd forget to tip.

*  
 "Nice place," Eames said brightly as Arthur opened the door to the hotel room. "You've really done well. I love the patterned carpet and wallpaper against the abstract artwork that is clearly well done. Paired with the textured ceiling, it's almost too bland. Not enough, uh, loudness in the décor. I'm disappointed." Arthur smiled at him, taking his duffel bag as Eames loitered in the entryway, letting the door slowly shut behind him. He looked good for all that he looked tired. The summer sun had leant him the same golden tan he had had in Mombassa and all Eames could think was, You're far more beautiful than I had remembered. For a moment, he wished he was the type of person who could say that type of thing. He was ashamed to admit he didn't know if Arthur was the type of man who would appreciate hearing it.

"Your love of interior decorating really shows here," Eames continued, running his mouth while Arthur worked up the courage to say what ever it was he wanted to say. "How you think it's totally not a waste of time, especially in hotel rooms." Eames watched as Arthur walked, along one of the narrow, green carpet stripes, to stand in front of him.

"I've missed you," Arthur said at long last. "I've missed you a lot. I don't like being apart very much."

"I haven't been sleeping well," Eames admitted. "You're usually my pillow, and nothing else quite cuts in unless I'm hooked up, apparently."

Arthur leaned forward and kissed the other man suddenly, dragging his slightly chapped lips across Eames's own. He pulled back just as suddenly, clearing his throat slightly. Dark eyes looked down.

"How are your nightmares?" Eames asked, pretending to carry on the conversation as Arthur inched closer and closer, nearly touching.

"They've been bad lately," Arthur murmured. He touched Eames's lips fleetingly with his own once more. "But I'm feeling better now." He met Eames's eyes and Eames couldn't take it anymore.

Eames pulled him to a real kiss by his shirt collar, tasting banana ice cream and coffee and smoke. He sighed contentedly as he leaned into the gentle ministrations, eyes closed. His hand found its way up to cup the back of Arthur's delicate neck; Arthur let out a rather delightful noise at Eames's sharp grip. Arthur's hands found Eames's shoulders, brushing over his nipples thru his shirt. Arthur's hands found their way to the buttons of Eames's shirt and tugged the first few open expertly.

For some reason, the feeling of Arthur's cold, slender fingers brushing his collar bone as he undid buttons, something he'd felt at least hundred times before, was his undoing. Usually he stilled those eager hands and pulled away, but today he gasped.

Eames pulled desperately at the tucked hem of Arthur's shirt, trying to get it out and off. The neck hole was too small, buttons still done up, and their kiss was broken for a moment by Eames's awkward pulling of fabric.

Arthur's fingers attacked the buttons on his own shirt, pushing them through the tiny holes impatiently in his hurry to return to kissing Eames. He finally pulled the soft fabric off his arms, scars bared. He threw the shirt to the ground in the closest thing to a violent gesture Eames had ever seen directed towards him from Arthur. Arthur tugged at the shoulders of Eames's shirt, the progress he'd made already with the buttons enough to discard the shirt with ease. Their mouths crashed together again.

Eames groaned as he wrapped his arms around Arthur's slight frame. Eames cupped his ass and lifted him off of his feet, pressing against him, pinning the younger man to the ugly wall with his body. Arthur's long legs wrapped around his waist, deliciously tight against him, as bare skin finally touched. Arthur was already hard within his corduroys, pressing wonderfully against Eames’s own arousal. He snaked an arm between them and palmed Eames thru the fabric of his pants.

"Fuck, Arthur," Eames gasped as he broke the kiss in favour of air, hips jerking, surprised at the sudden jolt of sensation, against the teen he'd pinned to the wall. The little whimper Arthur let out made Eames press against him again; Arthur clutched his free hand at Eames's broad shoulder for purchase, still cold but warming.

Eames had wanted Arthur for what felt like forever. He didn’t exactly understand why even the most domestic, casual action, or a rare flash of dimples, would make him so crazy, but fuck he had wanted and resisted him for so long.

With Arthur pulling now at Eames's belt with shaky hands, murmuring his name like it was the very key to salvation, he wasn't sure why he'd waited so long. Eames pulled back enough to watch Arthur's face greedily as he used his hands and hips to make the other arch against him, amazed at the complete openness, the wanton, bruised lips and the flush he'd never seen before creeping up the younger man's neck.

He pulled away from the wall, all but throwing Arthur down onto the hotel desk. Arthur tried to sit, hands pulling Eames back to him, but Eames shoved him back onto the wood roughly, pulling corduroys off of his toned legs. He discarded his own trousers, admiring the lithe form spread out on the desk.

He leaned over him, planting his hands on slender, slender hips. Kissing his way up the teen's chest, he finally dropped his mouth to Arthur's neck, biting and sucking at all the sensitive parts of the creamy skin. Arthur's hand slid up and down his broad chest, teasing and brushing over the muscles they both knew could overpower Arthur with scarcely an effort. Eames's strong hands held the other man in place as Arthur panted and squirmed in the hold, hips searching for friction and lips for Eames's mouth. Eames mouthed over the sharp curve of Arthur's clavicle, sinking his teeth in the soft flesh of his deltoid just to hear him fight for breath.

He pressed his lips to the bruise already forming, whispering, "Mine." Arthur nodded desperately.

"Yours," he agreed without hesitation. "Eames. Please."

"What do you want?" Eames demanded, brushing his lips across Arthur's, air from his words ghosting along sensitive skin. Dark eyes bored into his, seemingly darker with lust. Eames explored Arthur's hot mouth when he was met with silence, squeezing narrow hips. "What to you want?" he repeated, biting along Arthur's jawbone.

"I don't…" he trailed off as Eames slid him thumbs under the elastic of his boxers, his right thumb brushing a small hypertrophied scar running down the ridge of his hipbone. Eames's hands held him in place as he pulled the boxers down far enough to nip at the surprisingly sensitized, dark line, soothing the old wound with his tongue. "Fuck, Eames, I don't know, something, anything, please!" Arthur's hands were clasping almost too tightly at his wrists.

Eames released Arthur's hips, pulling the man to sit by his own wrists. He stood between Arthur's legs, letting Arthur jerk his arms free to wrap them around Eames's neck and pull him closer, pressing his lips to Eames's neck.

Eames carried him over to the bed, throwing him down with ease. Arthur was so light, so easy to move and shift, he thought, enjoying how tight Arthur would hold him while being pliant as jelly. Arthur's breath was coming in pants and part of Eames wanted to see how long he could keep Arthur all ruffled like this. He pulled down the other's boxers, groaning at the sight of Arthur's cock, hard and flushed and his.

"Don't move," Eames ordered, tossing two sets of boxers to rest by Arthur's long-forgotten corduroys. He zipped the side pocket of his duffel bag open; he was not one to be unprepared. Lube and condoms were something he always travelled with despite the fact he hadn't anticipated doing this with Arthur anytime soon.

Arthur's skin looked incredibly muted against the sharp white of the hotel's comforter, beautiful and bare and all for Eames, only for him. He started to sit, to bring himself Eames grabbed Arthur's ankle, pulling his entire body closer with a firm jerk, kneeling on the edge of the mattress. He leaned down to kiss at Arthur's belly, releasing Arthur's foot. His leg somehow ended up tossed over Eames's shoulder, his knee resting there easily as Eames worked his way up the path of slight bruises and red hickeys his previous exploration of Arthur's torso had left. Arthur's hands encouraged him to kiss his lips once more and Eames did.

He let one arm keep his weight off of the tiny body beneath him, the other cupping the slight thigh resting lankly over his shoulder. He could feel the heat of Arthur's erection against him and Arthur could too, if the mewl he let out was any indication. Eames moved away, not letting Arthur rut against him shamelessly. Arthur bit Eames's lower lip slightly as Eames pulled away, stroking his cool hands across Eames's brawny chest.

"What do you want?" Eames asked, his forehead touching Arthur's damp cheek. Arthur lowered his hand, wrapping around Eames's length and he jerked his hips inadvertently.

"I want you," Arthur said firmly, tugging and twisting. "I want you."

"Me?" Eames echoed, pushing his leg against Arthur. With a gasp, Arthur's eyes fell shut, head falling back. "You want me?"

"Y—Yes," Arthur agreed, his voice low and almost gravely.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" Eames asked, the hand he had on Arthur's thigh curling around to cup his ass. Arthur pressed his face into Eames's neck, murmuring nonsense and assent.

He sat back on his heels, pulling himself from Arthur's grasp, much to his displeasure. Fuck, he was almost painfully hard, and Arthur didn't look much better. He clicked the lube open, coating a finger and circling Arthur's entrance. Those narrow hips canted, and Eames took that as a signal to press in just a little. Arthur looked terribly small like this, Eames's hands holding him and pushing into him.

"I feel like I'm going to snap you in half," Eames told Arthur, pushing in a little bit more.

"You won't, I promise," he assured him, breathless. "Fuck, Eames!" Eames kissed the calf resting upon his shoulder, his free hand slapping Arthur's hand away from his cock.

"Mine," he said again, wrapping his hand around the hot appendage. Arthur shuddered and his hands twitched listlessly, running thru his hair, eyes shut against so much sensation. He pressed in a second finger, watching Arthur's face carefully for any sign of discomfort. At the third finger, Arthur twisted his head and his breath shifted.

"Hey, hey, hey," Eames said softly, recognizing the shift and freezing his movements. "Open your eyes, babe, look at me." Arthur snapped his eyes open, calming immediately when he saw Eames. "Stay with me now, love, all right?" Arthur nodded shakily, tipping his hips towards Eames once more.

"I'm OK, I'm here," Arthur said.

"Stay with me," Eames told him. "I've got you, I promise." He nodded at Eames, who leaned down to kiss him, twisting his fingers to find that one spot that would make him—

Arthur made this incredibly guttural sound against Eames's mouth, his whole body tensing. "Please," he moaned, hands fisting the sheets. Eames couldn't wait much longer, he prepared himself and lined his cock up with Arthur.

Arthur cried out when Eames pushed in, squeezing his eyes shut again, and Eames stopped, frozen in place, shaking with the effort of holding back. Finally Arthur looked up at him thru his eyelashes, urging him deeper with just a nod. Eames let out a moan of his own as Arthur, the cheeky wanker, used his legs, crushing around Eames's waist, to pull Eames in quicker than he thought Arthur would be ready for.

"Fuck me, Eames," Arthur ordered as Eames grabbed at his slender waist, gasping. "I can take it; fuck me." Eames started rocking and Arthur pinched Eames's nipples, rolling his hips against the place where their bodies joined. Eames grabbed his wrists, pulling Arthur's arms above his head and pinning them against the bed. He lowered his head to rest against Arthur's shoulder, lost in sensation and heat of Arthur's hardness against his belly and the only tangible thing he was aware of was that this was Arthur letting him do this, letting him in and letting him hold him down and love him.

Arthur's arms were taut, jerking against the restraining grip. Eames mouthed over his ear, working his way down his neck, loving the tenseness of his lithe arms as he pulled, trying to get free to touch Eames. Eames pulled back slightly to watch and found himself mesmerized momentarily but the beads of sweat pooling in the hollow of Arthur's collarbone, the radiant glow of his flushed skin, the way his dark eyes were trained on Eames's face, the mesh of scars along Arthur's shoulders and triceps.

"You're far more beautiful than I had remembered," Eames blurted. Arthur responded with practically a sob, tightening his legs on Eames's waist as he strained, edging closer and closer to the edge.

"Please, Eames," he begged, arching off the bed. Eames moved one of his hands off of Arthur's wrists, wrapping around Arthur's cock.

"Come for me," he whispered, and Arthur did, mouth open in a silent scream, baring down on Eames, all heat and tightness and Eames lost himself within the other man. He collapsed onto Arthur's chest, ignoring the mess and the sticky, sticky sweat. Tunder cracked above them, lights flashing thru the window, but Arthur didn't seem to notice the noise, drawing his arms around Eames as the two fell asleep.


	8. Escaping Comfort

Eames wasn't certain of exactly what jolted him awake. The hotel pillows were soft against his cheek and the covers had been shifted and pulled over at some time during the night. Eames stretched slowly, languid, unable to gauge the time simply by the murky light filtering the window. The white, sheer drapes were still pulled over the windows and Eames could hear traffic and people drifting up four stories to their hotel room in the way only big city noise could. He rolled, searching first the bed and then the room for Arthur. The bathroom was empty, Eames could see thru the reflection of the mirror. Arthur's suitcase was no longer resting on the desk chair, Eames's own duffle lonely, his clothes draped over the chair neatly.

He sat up, panicking and thinking that maybe it had gone too far last night, if Arthur had left. But Arthur wouldn't have left, he thought angrily. He just wouldn't have—Eames noticed what had woken him up. Someone was trying to get in the door.

"Fucking keycards! What ever happened to real keys?" Arthur's voice muttered, pulling on the locked handle. Eames grinned stupidly at the door, his immature worries assuaged immediately. The teenager practically repelled technology at the rate it broke around him, for all that he was good repairing it. The door finally opened and Arthur entered, balancing two cups of coffee on top of one another while hugging a brown paper bag that smelled absolutely heavenly to his chest, covered in a white crewneck and a black sport coat. "You're still in bed?" Arthur demanded, eyes wide in surprise. He kicked the door shut behind him and tossed the faulty keycard onto the cheap dresser. "And naked!" he exclaimed, shaking his head.

"Well, what time is it?" Eames asked, taking the coffee Arthur offered him as he leaned down to peck a good morning onto Eames's forehead. Eames ignored the happy little dance the immature part of his brain did at that.

"It's twenty past one," Arthur said. "I brought lunch. Get dressed and maybe I'll let you eat some."

"Why do I have to be dressed?" Eames asked as he tossed the covers off and stood. "Am I too irresistible for you?" Arthur crunched his nose, setting his bag down on the small table in the corner, back to Eames.

"Sure," Arthur said in that placating tone he had. "Let's go with that."

"You're just awful to me," Eames joked, meandering to the bathroom to do his morning (or his waking-up, since it hadn't been morning for a while) business.

"But you love me for it," Arthur called. Eames smiled to himself in the mirror, thinking, I can't deny that.

*

"There's this guy, Cobb," Arthur began, picking at his pancakes with his fork. Eames nodded, using his utensils with both hands the way the Europeans did, guiding a slice of pancake to his mouth with his left hand. He was dressed in a ridiculous orange V-neck and his sweater's purple hood was raised, tho the weather wasn't exactly hood-appropriate, in Arthur's opinion. Never mind the fact they were technically at a restaurant, albeit on the back patio.

"I know who Cobb is," Eames said with a nod. "He's an excellent architect but he works only legal deals, almost exclusively with the military."

"Swallow first," Arthur complained, switching his fork to his left hand to cut at his own food. "You're like an untrained seven year old."

"Children aren't dogs, Arthur; you don't train them," Eames pointed out.

"You're like a seven year old who hasn't been taught table manners then," Arthur corrected himself, rolling his eyes. "In any case, it's disgusting."

"You're the one picking up his knife every thirty-five seconds to cut your food," Eames said. "Just hold them both at the same time." He lifted his own two hands, sarcastically giving them a slight wave. The knife caught the sunlight, a flash of light striking Arthur's unamused glare.

"We don't do that in Canada," Arthur said, placing his knife down delicately and switching his fork back to his right hand. "It just feels awkward to do it the way you do. That's different; talking with your mouth full is rude in both our home countries." Eames cocked an dissatisfied eyebrow but seemed to comply.

"Why mention Cobb?" Eames asked after a moment, popping more food into his mouth and chewing with his mouth closed.

"He contacted me about coming to visit him," Arthur said. "He says he has a job he can't take because he's getting married next month. He wants to do a meet and greet."

"Did he say who to?"

"To whom he's getting married? No," Arthur replied simply. "He's in a small town outside of Paris and he wants me there next week." Eames sipped at his water, frowning at the man sitting across the table from him. "He found me thru Peter, if that's what you look so worried about. If he's legit, what's the problem with me going to see him?"

"He's legal; I didn't say he was legitimate," Eames corrected, setting his glass down. He peered about the small café's backyard patio, strangely empty on a Sunday morning at eleven. The air was wet with the feeling of fresh rain, and Arthur could feel September just around the corner. The sun filtered thru the oak tree towering over the shoddy wooden fence, the shadows falling in spotted patterns across Eames. He looked strangely at home, lounging over pancakes at a small, rickety, glass table. "Anyone who squints as much as Cobb is up to something. I find he hasn't a wit of respect for other people's privacy, and I break into people's minds and con them out of their money for a living so you can imagine his lack of respect on a normal scale. He spends an absurd amount of time doing things he says never to do. In terms of a job he isn't working, he gets good ones so his consult will be amazing. Interesting, high paying, and if free of a Cobb-written plan, safe."

"But you have an issue with me going to visit him," Arthur repeated. Eames looked down, mildly embarrassed.

"It's only… It's your birthday next week," he said sheepishly. "I thought we'd, you know, do something special together. To celebrate." Arthur smiled softly, flattered. "Oh, don't give me that look," Eames ordered, shaking his head when he glanced back up.

"What look?" Arthur asked, grin not fading a centimetre.

"That look you have where you think I'm being sappy and cute," Eames pouted. "It makes me feel silly." Arthur shrugged, picking up his knife once more.

"I like it when you're silly sometimes," he admitted. "We haven't had a lot of silly in our lives, have we?" Eames shook his head, turning back to the last dregs of blueberry pancakes.

"Speaking of silly, why is it, exactly, that pancakes are a breakfast food but actual cake is not?" he asked as he pointed his fork at his plate, thinly veiling his distracting tactics. Arthur looked at his own now-empty plate, pondering, letting Eames get away with it for a moment.

"Cake is bad for you?" Arthur guessed, finding the question surprisingly difficult. It was rather illogical, if one truly gave it any thought. The caloric count couldn't be much different and it wasn't as if cake was too heavy a food for early morning; porridge was the most common breakfast when he was little and was designed, after all, to be heavy. 

"What, so I'm only allowed fried cake covered in liquid sugar?" Eames countered. "And waffles are the exact same thing and we eat those covered in chocolate."

"You put chocolate on your waffles?" Arthur echoed with a confused frown. Eames nodded, looking as tho it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Don't you? Nutella is absolutely essential when eating a waffle," he said firmly. Arthur mentally repeated the hilarious lilt of Eames's accent over the word waffle, giggling internally.

"Don't change the subject," Arthur ordered after a moment spent absorbing the bizarreness of that food pairing and the accent. "Why do we have to celebrate my birthday? I'm fairly certain we didn't celebrate yours."

"I was in Mexico and you were driving thru Northern Ontario on June sixteenth," Eames admitted. "I had a celebration of Mexican food and the worm at the bottom of the tequila bottle but I'm old and old people don't celebrate birthdays. Teenagers do. Where did you ever find the time to learn to drive, by the way?"

"I grew up in the boonies," Arthur laughed. "There's nothing to do there other than learn how to do things. I have a myriad of useless skills."

"Can you ride a unicycle?" Eames asked. "Or juggle?"

"Yes," Arthur said. "You're how old, then?" Arthur questioned after a moment, embarrassed to say he wasn't sure.

"Thirty. I am thirty. I'm eleven years older than you," Eames said matter-of-factly, "and that feels very, very old."

"It's not really that old and you are twelve years older than me," he corrected. "Nice math."

"That's so much worse," Eames said, shaking his head. "Not only am I ancient but you're cleverer than me. Did Cobb tell you anything about the job?" he continued after a moment.

"I don't think so," Arthur said slowly. "He kind of rambled about ideas being parasites and corrupting people's heads or safes or something. I'm not sure what code he was speaking in and I don't know what I was meant to infer."

"Don't worry, love," Eames assured him. "Very rarely do people know what Cobb means to imply."

 

*

Indirectly, this was all Arthur's fault, Eames decided. Very indirectly and perhaps a bit unfairly, but nonetheless. Arthur had been in Paris for almost three months working and Eames had become bored of hanging about and grifting to pass the time. He loaded a couple of dice and set off to Las Vegas. It was Arthur's fault for a couple of reasons.

For one, Eames wouldn't have been bored if Arthur had been home, that's for sure. He wouldn't have felt the desire to go to Vegas of all places in the unlikely event he was bored, because the quality of his ID didn't matter, Arthur got carded at least eight times a night if they went out to a casino, or any where with an age restriction really, and it kind of became a buzz kill after the first few times and Eames started feeling like a pedophile. He certainly hadn't been carded in decades. He wouldn't have been using loaded dice in Vegas if Arthur had been with him because that would have endangered Arthur and when he was alone he was much less safety conscious. Besides, Arthur wouldn't have approved of such blatant cheating and most importantly: Arthur would have checked his spelling. Venetian was a hard word for Eames and he'd won almost fifty grand (after losing his twenty grand of fake chips, on purpose, thank you very much) before anyone had noticed. He knew most of his phoney chips would be drifting in and out of the casino banks for the next few weeks.

In any case, he'd been caught and he would have managed a smooth escape (cash in hand), but he didn't realize being tased hurt that much or that the taser charges could be launched that far. It had been a few hours and Eames felt like his legs where still tingling and trembling with access electricity. He'd lost consciousness when the casino goons had had at him and he didn't know how long he'd been out or where they'd put in the meantime.

His head was swathed in thick cloth, barely any light seeping thru and the hot, sticky air was giving Eames a bit of a turtle headache to accompany his already pounding head. Maybe he would have noticed that Casino Goon 4 had had taser if he'd been a touch less tipsy. Vegas just did that to him, you know?

In any case, he sat with a bag over his head, handcuffed and duct taped to an old office chair. He'd been sitting there for hours and the chair didn't have an iota of lumbar support. For someone who just got beat up, Eames thought, he deserved to complain a little bit about shitty chairs.

If he ever needed to kidnap someone, he was going to duct tape their entire body to a lazy boy, unable to escape the comfort. That's stupid, the sensible part of his mind reminded him. He would have shrugged if his shoulder didn't hurt from being thrown into the van so harshly and then being tugged a slightly too sharp an angle in this chair for the past age and a half. A door creaked open and Eames's ears tracked three sets of footsteps around the room. Two people (presumably men, judging by their respective gaits) stood somewhere behind him and a third stood in front of him. The bag was ripped from his head and Eames couldn't help but wince at the sudden brightness of the room. It was cleaner than he had anticipated; he'd expected a dirty, gross warehouse, cliché down to the rats, but this was a decidedly clean, if basement-damp, room. The walls were merely unfinished drywall but there weren't any leaky pipes and the tiled ceiling didn't have any flickering florescents or cobwebs.

The man in front of Eames was tall, thin and older than Eames would have guessed. He'd never seen a sexagenarian working this type of casino security and he'd certainly never seen one in that nice of a suit, grey hair combed back and his equally grey suit light against the black leather gloves he was slipping onto his soft-looking hands. His clean, old face was calm with displeasure, tugging at his gloves as he sighed.

"It does seem we have a problem, Mr Thomas," the man began, his voice the type of gravely Eames knew his would become if he continued smoking until he had had the same amount of birthdays as the older man. Eames pulled his face into fake, genuine-looking surprise and the man smiled cooly. "Of course we didn't fall for your falsified IDs listing you as a Neil Leer, Mr Thomas. You hardly look like a Neil, after all."

"Who are you?" Eames asked. The man finished tugging at his gloves, clasping his hands together with the light squeal of leather on leather tightly.

"Some call me their worst nightmare," he replied. "Some say the pain I inflict is the type they expected only to be found in hell. Some say I am the Lord's very Angel of Death. More accurately, however, I am Nicholas Roy, and you have stepped on my toes."

"I'm very sorry," Eames said. "I'm afraid I've a dentist's appointment, however, and I really must be off."

"I hate to rain on your parade, Mr Thomas," Roy began, "but I do believe you'll have to reschedule." Eames heard footsteps behind him and turned, trying to see who or what was behind him. He caught sight of two thick, muscled brunets in a waiter's tuxes, stretched tight over barrelled chests. Look, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, he thought. He recognized the familiar bulge of holstered weaponry on both goons. "Our casino seems to remember giving you a warning before, when you pulled a similar operation two years ago. We thought our warning, when you went by Gordon Johnson, had been sufficient. At the very least, we didn't anticipate you'd try anything at our casino again. We've never met someone with the temerity to test our patience." Eames cursed mentally. He thought the last time he'd been caught was at Caesar's. Clearly, he needed to learn his ancient Rome-themed casinos better.

"Maybe I've been in the States too long," Eames offered. "If I'm this cocky, I could apply for a green card, couldn't I?" Mr Roy smiled tightly at him, nodding at one the men behind him. One circled in front of Eames from his left and delivered a hefty punch, Eames's vision going white for a moment against the bruising pain dancing across his cheekbone. "I suppose I've ticked the wrong box on the application, then?"

"I think I'll leave you with my friends for the remainder of the evening," Roy replied. "There will be an exam tomorrow on obedience and mannerly replies to my questions, so perhaps take notes, if they leave your versatile writing hand intact." The leather gloves squeaked again as the tall man bounced on his toes for a moment. "I don't think I'll have time to stop by before noon tomorrow, Mr Thomas. Do enjoy your evening. I trust my men will supply your every desire."

Roy swept from the room (the Cruella theme song played loudly in Eames's head) and the door, somewhere behind him to his left, banged shut. Eames gave a half-hearted smile at the two hulks cracking their knuckles and chuckling darkly. He doubted he was in for a fun time, but he also doubted they'd kill him for a bit of cheek, so he may as well have a bit of fun.

"All my desires? I am a little thirsty," he admitted. The two glanced at each other, confused as to whether he understood what Roy had been implying. "Do you happen to have Coke Zero? I'm dying for a the real Coke taste but I can't deign the calories."


	9. Yes, I Have

Eames had to venture a guess that it was about nine in the morning. His face hurt and his chest hurt and his head hurt but he was fairly certain his neck only hurt from sleeping so oddly, not from injury. He supposed he was lucky the casino had hired fairly unimaginative guns; he'd been hit a lot and all over and with fists and bits of wood and maybe kicked once or twice, but he'd been worried he'd actually be tortured. He wouldn't put it past sharks to torment him for a long, long while but if that was the worst he would face, he could suck it up until he could get out of here.

How was he going to do that? he wondered. He could barely move his fingers against the tightness of bindings and stiffness of settled blood, let alone pick the lock on his duct-tape covered handcuffs. He couldn't spin the office chair (Officially the worst office chair ever: uncomfortable and it didn't even spin) around to look at the location and locks of the door or doors. He couldn't see from the angle he was stuck at, but he was pretty sure the chair didn't have wheels either. He'd tried pushing it around the smooth, cement floor with his bound feet and learned that there is no worse feeling than the second you tilt a chair just a millimetre too far and convince yourself you're going to die. The light was always constant and unshifting, leading him to believe there weren't windows in his room, just the florescents in the ceiling. He couldn't even do that stupid hop people did in restaurants to let a waiter pass by them; his feet were bound to some element of the chair and disallowed much movement.

The door creaked open and Eames recognized the very-1930's click-click of Nicholas Roy's shoes as he entered, presumably alone by the silence behind him. He rounded Eames, hands still tucked in those leather gloves and his impeccable suit a very sharp navy blue, a black fedora rocking out atop his head. Eames grinned up at him cheekily despite the pull on his split lip and Roy smiled politely back.

"Nice hat," Eames said sarcastically. Mr Roy touched the rim lightly, as tho he'd forgotten he was wearing it.

"It was a gift from my now-ex-wife. I must say I rather feel like a player in the Sting when I wear it."

"Very cliché gangster, if that's what you're playing for," Eames offered.

"Did you have fun?" he asked, dark eyes gleaming nastily. "Keep in mind that was really just our introductory course. We have much more exciting material in our next segment."

"Oh, well, they were wonderful hosts, extremely hospitable young men, and devastatingly handsome ones at that, truly. What a lovely evening," Eames replied. "Why all the school metaphors? Did you have a bad experience in a classroom? Did you want nothing more to become a hairdresser but found yourself dragged out of uni to fight in the American Civil War?"

"I am not that old, Mr Thomas," Roy snapped. Eames nodded apologetically.

"Of course, I'm sorry. I know how rude it is to ask women their age."

"You are incorrigible, my friend," the older man said tightly. "But my casino prides itself on teaching lessons to those who don't learn well, of reaching the minds of the unreachable. We find that it's all about the method, about how one goes about it. Do you follow?" he asked, voice and gestures becoming slightly scripted. Eames wondered how many lesser men had sat in this seat, listening and afraid. "It's a subtle art, in a sense. Our method is, simply put, to bring you to the brink of insanity thru pain and then, unless you're begging for death, to let you go."

"That's not teaching," Eames pointed out helpfully. "Really it's the opposite; that's destroying a mind, not teaching it something." Roy blinked at him, thrown off the rhythm of his monologue. He sighed slightly and closed his eyes, the small sort of annoyed sigh that wasn't meant to be noticed as he gave up his theatrics. Eames's mind drew up thousands of instances of Arthur giving his own sigh at him.

Fuck, he thought, Arthur. How was he going to explain this? Yeah, don't worry about the bruises and stuff, babe. Just got bored and headed down to Vegas to get beat up for a weekend or so. How was he going to even get the chance to explain this to Arthur? If Roy owned up to his threats of torture and pain (and old people didn't make it as criminals unless they knew what they were doing), escaping would get harder and harder. 

"Fine, let's cut right to it then," he said, shaking his head and glaring. He lifted a hand and made a beckoning gesture at something, presumably someone, lingering in the doorway. Roy slipped off his gloves and jacket, handing them to suited hulk of a man who appeared at his side, removing his cufflinks and depositing them into the other's waiting palm. "I'll leave the hat on," he said, "since you seem to be an admirer."

Eames noted the Walther P99 tucked into a class leather holster, fitting so well to the man's frame that Eames almost hadn't noticed it when the suit jacket covered it. The coat rack shuffled off and Roy slowly rolled up his sleeves. A young woman, no older than twenty five, rolled a small table, a tray with a stand really, to sit next to Eames. She lay a rolled leather case on the smooth, shiny surface and another goon laid a quality office chair next to the table before, presumably, walking out the door and shutting it behind him. Eames surveyed the chair. Lumbar support, wheels and that lever that made it go up and down with the little whooshing noise Eames liked. Now that, he thought dimly, is a chair.

"Have you ever had a manicure, Mr Thomas?" Roy asked cooly, sitting in the chair and smoothing his striped tie slightly as he did so. "They are extremely delightful. Look at my nails, and then look at yours." Roy held out his old hand, showing Eames the buffed shine, smooth edges and perfect cuticles. Roy grabbed Eames's middle and ring finger, pulling them straight to look at the nails. The sensation of being held was odd and almost painful in Eames's sleeping nerves and he wished the bindings were loose enough he could rudely pull away. He tried and the cuffs underneath the duct tape cut, once again, into his wrists. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Look at the skin around the nails, Mr Thomas! It's dry and peeling a little; you don't take very good care of your hands, do you? All of your edges are uneven and I doubt these have been cleaned with a proper nail brush in their lives."  
   
"I have a life to attend to," Eames retorted. "It's so hard to fit in the time for things like this."

"And look at the quick of your thumb!" he gasped, digging his own thumbnail into the soft flesh under the nail. Eames let out an involuntary, surprised hiss. "You're the type to be a biter, aren't you? When you worry about the girlfriend whose been texting you?" Eames frowned and Roy pulled Eames's Samsung out from his pants pocket, releasing Eames's hand. He leaned in close, tilting the screen to show Eames. "Look, eight missed calls this morning and all these lovely messages. You got one this morning, just before I got in."

 _12/13 9:23AM A: I'm on my way home! should I meet you where we split up?_  
12/13 10:19AM  
Booking tickets now… Be there tomorrow at 2145ish. Can you pick me up at Pearson then?   12/13 10:19AM A: On second thought I'll cab it if you can have food ready?  
12/13 4:47PM  
A: Are you around? Reply. I'm worry ing.  
12/14 6:12PM   
A: I'm back in Canada. Will be in TO in two hours. Are you Ok?  
12/14 10:12PM    
A: In TO.  12/14 10:56PM A: I'm home. Where are you?  
12/14 11:06PM  
 A: Where are you?  
12/15 3:00AM  
A: Babe?  
12/15 3:34AM   
A: Im honestly freaking out now. Answer me. Are you OK? 12/16  
9:32AM   
A: I really hate it when you ignore me you know.  
  
"It's very sweet that she calls you babe, Mr Thomas," Roy said cheerily. "A… Andrea? Allison? Anne?" he guessed. Eames simply glared. "Melissa." The young woman unrolled the leather case on the little metal table and Eames's stomach sank when he saw the array of tools within the case. "I just don't see how we can repair the state of those nails. I believe, if you are to have nails that command respect, we may need to start from scratch." As Roy's old fingers slid a metal implement from its leather loop, Eames tried to yank his hands out of the bindings once more, knowing how much this would hurt. The cuffs cut into his wrists beneath the duct tape that held this forearms to the chair arms. He couldn't even manage enough wiggle room to yank his fingers from Roy's surprisingly strong grip.

The pliers gripped and Roy twisted, pulling the nail up from its delicate bed. Eames jerked, unable to believe how much that fucking hurt. His nerves were already sore from settled blood and lack of movement, just having Roy hold his hand hurt and as he pulled up, ripping Eames's nail from the fragile and tender skin beneath. Roy pulled slowly, taking a full minute to break the nail from its base. Roy dropped the fingernail, which had popped off in its entirety onto the metal tray with a soft clink.

"An unfortunate sensation, is it not?" Roy asked calmly against Eames's rough breathing, pushing down on the agonized flesh of his nail bed with his thumb, smearing red blood onto his skin. Eames screwed his eyes shut, pulling hard enough that his immobile wrist popped but, fuck, fuck, fuck, he couldn't get away from the pain. "If only you took even a smidgen of care with your loaded dice and your fake chips and your poor, poor nails." Eames exhaled sharply as Roy removed his pressure. Even the air touching the nail bed was fucking awful. Eames bit his tongue, trying not to let out any more noise as Roy grabbed Eames's ring finger.

Roy had slowly, slowly made it all the way to Eames's thumb (liberally applying salt and then a bit of hand sanitizer to all the quicks of his fingers first, and giving each nail bed a bit of a rub) when Melissa murmured, "Boss," and pulled a gun from her lower back, hidden beneath her own suit coat, searching for some noise or disturbance Eames was so not aware of right now. The coat rack from earlier followed suit and Roy turned to look at them, not releasing Eames's nail, the pliers cracking it halfway down its length; the sharp, broken edge dug into the unprotected cells beneath. Eames couldn't help but let out a cry of pain at that and even he had to admit that cry of pain was not his first. "What?"

The door slid open and Eames tried to twist to see what it was that had the two guards training their guns on the same unseen point behind him, but the movement jerked his finger slightly within Roy's grasp and fuck, that was not the smartest move. A gunshot fired and the coat rack dropped, clutching his chest and gasping. Melissa fired once before falling back against the wall behind her in time with someone else's bullet, mimicking the airless gasp of her counterpart. Roy removed his grasp of Eames's fingernail as he dropped his pliers, pulling his own gun and pressing it to Eames's neck.

"May I help you?" Roy asked. "Gunshots are loud, you know, young man. The rest of my security will be on their way shortly with that level of noise."

"No, they won't," a familiar voice said. "Why don't you put the gun down and move away?"

"You have no leverage to make me do that," Roy pointed out. Eames watched his cool, collected face, noting the slightest undertone of panic running underneath a near-flawless mask. "You see, I'm using your friend as a bit of a shield—"

A gun shot fired and Eames's eyebrows took up residence in his hairline, shocked. Even Roy's eyes widened, his fedora flying off presumably with a bullet hole within the crown.

"Don't think I can't make that shot, or that I won't," Arthur said. "Step away—" Roy complied, kicking and rolling away on the quality office chair, much to Eames's surprise "—place the gun down, and kick it over to me." The zing of metal sliding on concrete met Eames's ears. He saw Melissa reaching for her dropped gun, no blood surrounding the bullet hole in her white shirt. At least she was wearing a vest, Eames thought, before remembering that she was one of the bad guys. "You, don't move." Melissa glanced up over Eames's shoulder and froze her hand on the gun, sliding it away after a moment.

Eames watched Arthur walk right past him, dropping a large loop of plastic zip tie in front of her and in front of the coat rack, still clutching at the punch of a bullet into Kevlar. "Hands together, the both of you." He held his gun on them until they complied, each using their own teeth on one end of their respective plastic binds to tighten the ties. Melissa looked pretty pissed but coat rack didn't seem that committed to his job, just to not dying. Eames heard the telltale noise of small wheels and glanced at Roy trying to scoop up his gun. "Arthur!" he yelled, body trying to jump in the way as Roy lifted the metal, but he was frozen. Two gunshots fired almost in sync and Eames found his eyes screwing themselves shut, entire body going taut, against the blasts and the heavy sound of a body hitting cement.

He opened his eyes slowly, heart pounding, and saw Arthur lowering his Glock, tucking it to his lower back, Roy's body on the ground. He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Eames stared, shocked, at the eighteen year old in front of him, casually fishing car keys out of his pocket, flipping a Swiss Army knife open. Arthur kicked the small wheeled table away, kneeling and slicing thru layers of silver tape. Eames continued staring as Arthur used the usually-completely-pointless toothpick function of his pocket knife to pick the easy lock.

"Arthur," Eames breathed, touching the young man's neck with his freshly freed hand, almost crying out in pain as his nerves began to wake up with new blood. Arthur glared, knocking Eames's hand away before getting to work on his other hand. "When did you become such a BAMF?" he demanded, rubbing his wrists as Arthur freed his feet.

"That word means nothing to me," Arthur replied, still scowling. "Let's go." He pulled Eames to his feet, showing no sympathy when Eames was a little unsteady. He scooped up Roy's gun, seemingly unperturbed by the body and the mess,

"When did you become such a badass motherfucker?" Eames clarified, following Arthur out the door he'd heard creak open so many times in the last few days.

"Language," Arthur muttered, leading Eames thru the maze of hallway and past a room Eames noted was filled with five suited guards, all their hands zip-tied and he wondered what the hell had happened there.

"As if you never curse," he retorted.

"Not so frequently I require an acronym to ask stupid questions," Arthur snapped, pulling the main door open, gesturing for Eames to proceed him out the door into the Vegas side street. "Please." Eames simply cocked a brow and waited for an answer. "Eames, I'm mad at you and I've shot four people already today so maybe don't push your luck." Arthur pointed firmly at the street and Eames, despite feeling like a poorly-trained dog, hurried out into the road. Eames didn't ask anymore questions and followed Arthur thru a tangle of sidewalks and corners to a busy street. Arthur opened the door of the Chevy Cobalt for Eames, his face still all pinched and furious. Eames surveyed the apparently, if the stickers were to be trusted, rented car as Arthur rounded the car and climbed in himself. Eames nodded sarcastically at the rental stickers as the man started the car. "Shut up, I don't know how to steal cars yet." Arthur backed out of the parallel parking, glancing at Eames momentarily as he turned in his seat, spinning the wheel with the heel of his hand.

"Seatbelt," Arthur ordered, pulling into the street and waving a thanks at the Bentley that let him into the flow of traffic. Eames complied onehanded, not daring to outwardly roll his eyes at someone who was already upset at him.

He managed to sit on his hands, as it were, until they were on the highway and heading out of Las Vegas.

"Where are we going?" Eames asked, watching the desert zoom by his window. Arthur accelerated and changed gears. Eames grinned; he didn't know Arthur could drive stick.

"You lost the privilege to know where we're going for the day," Arthur replied, not sparing Eames a glance as he checked his mirrors and blindspot. Eames stored the fact that Arthur drove as cautiously as a mum with a newborn in the backseat (despite the fact he clearly knew how to handle a car) away for later use. He smoothly passed some old man in a hat doing about sixty clicks in a fifty-five mile zone. Eames didn't know what fifty-five meant, but Arthur seemed content to zoom along at hundred ten after he passed the red truck. "In fact, you have no rights for  today. No talking to me, and you don't get to be DJ."

"What did I do?" he asked, surprised. Arthur snorted. "I'm serious. What did I do?"

"As if you don't know."

"I don't know," Eames insisted. Arthur glanced at him, scoffing and shaking his head. "I don't understand why you're so angry with me."

"Really?" Arthur demanded, sarcasm positively dripping from the three syllables. "You haven't the foggiest idea why I'm upset? Couldn't venture a guess?"

"Not a clue," Eames replied honestly.

"I don't believe you," Arthur sneered, grip tight on the wheel. "I don't—I can't fucking believe you."

"OK, calm down," Eames said, gesturing calm with a hand. "Explain to me what you've got your knickers in a twist over."

"You!" Arthur snapped. "I can't fucking believe you! I should have left you there to learn a goddamn lesson!"

"I haven't any fingernails on my right hand and I'm bruised from head to toe. I learned something about spelling things correctly on fake dice today, darling," Eames pointed out petulantly. "Thank you for finding me, by the way. I do appreciate you not leaving me for dead." Arthur sighed heavily, shaking his head again. "What?"

"You remember when I got hurt back in February?" Arthur asked, voice tight. He continued without giving Eames time to reply. "Remember getting home from your job, wondering the whole way to the apartment if I was all right, if I was dead or if I was being tortured by some, some—fuckhead with a pair of pliers? Remember not knowing if you'd find a body or a ransom note or anything at all? Remember how fucking _awful_ that was?" Arthur was almost shouting now, flicking his eyes, a little wild, from the empty, straight road to Eames. "And that wasn't even my fault! And here, here, I come home and I'm jetlagged as shit, and I can't get ahold of you and for all I know you're in the bottom of Lake Ontario with a bullet in your eye! Thank god you left me a note that you were in Vegas or I never—How could you do that to me, Eames? _Of course I'm fucking mad at you_!" he yelled.

Arthur smacked the heel of his palm against the steering wheel suddenly, scowling. "Do you get it? You're all I have, you know. I've lost everything before and I'm not willing to lose you. The same way you couldn't deal with it when I got hurt, I… If you…" He trailed off, fists tight on the wheel once more as he breathed deeply and exhaled hard. The car hadn't swerved an extra centimetre off course as Arthur ranted. "Don't you dare do that to me again," he practically growled. "Don't be a dumbass and get yourself killed. Don't be an idiot. Before you do anything, ask yourself, _would an idiot do this_? If yes, don't do it. An idiot would forget to spell check forgeries. Don't do that."

"You're brilliant, Eames," Arthur added, barely audible, after a moment of heavy silence. "You're just genius. And if you get yourself killed over something like this, I'm going to bring you back to life and kill you again. You are _not_ allowed to do that to me. Never again. Do you understand?"

"I get why you're mad at me, yeah," Eames admitted. Arthur nodded and Eames poked his elbow lightly with his good hand. "You're relieved I'm all right, even just a little. A speck? A whit! The tiniest jot known to man?" He held his forefinger and thumb a centimetre apart and squinted at Arthur thru the gap.

"You're an asshole," Arthur said, a hint of a smile in his voice. "Just an absolute jerk."

"You wound me," Eames complained. Arthur checked his left blindspot and peeled off the main highway to an exit.

"Good."

*

Arthur snuffled, becoming awake at the crackle of fireworks in the distance. He opened his eyes and pushed his hair from his face, staring at the edge of the coffee table as everything drifted into focus, not coming to him instantly like it did when he woke from sleep. The chemicals and side effects from the last job hadn't flushed his system yet, meaning he slept deeper than usual and without real nightmares, just flashes of memory and the normal, illogical dreams he used to have before his life turned left. It also meant he was incredibly groggy when he woke from natural sleep. He cracked his neck loudly, propping himself up on his elbows. He squinted against the lamps, finding Eames standing by the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony, watching purple and red explosions against the navy canvas of night.

"Did I miss it?" Arthur asked sleepily, still stretched out on the couch, pillow crushed under his chest. Eames turned, bottle of champagne in his hand, eyes a little glassy. "You're drunk; I missed it." Eames shook his empty hand, his sleeve riding up enough to let him look at his father's old watch.

"Eleven fifty five," he reported. Arthur yawned.

"It's not even midnight and you're already drunk?" he asked around his yawn, eyes watering against the force of his fatigue.

"You fell asleep at nine thirty," Eames retorted, lurching over to share the couch with Arthur as the teen sat up. "Do you want a drink?"

"I don't drink," Arthur reminded him. "Why didn't you wake me?" Eames placed the bottle on the coffee table as he sunk to the cushions next to Arthur. His leg rested, hot, against Arthur's and he felt happy as Eames leaned in to nuzzle his neck. "Your stubble," he giggled after a moment, squirming away from Eames's lips on the one spot on his neck that was regrettably ticklish.

"You're too cute when you sleep on the couch," Eames explained with a slight slur. "You make these little sniffle noises as you drift off and in and you curl up like a bunny." He reached out and tapped Arthur's nose. Arthur scrunched his nose and pulled away.

"Stop it," he ordered with a smile, grabbing Eames's finger as he tapped a third time, avoiding the nail-free tip, and pulling the hand away.

"Love you, you know," Eames said, trapping Arthur hand in his own.

"You're inebriated; doesn't count because you haven't said it before," he disallowed, shaking his head at Eames.

"Neither have you!" Eames retorted with a pout. Arthur blinked at him and frowned slightly.

"Yes, I have."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Say it again," Eames ordered after a moment.

"I love you," Arthur said easily. Eames grinned, chuckled and awarded Arthur a quick kiss.

"Wanna watch the fireworks with me?" Eames asked earnestly, pulling Arthur to his feet.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked, Eames tugging him into an awkward hold.

"Relax," he suggested, holding one of Arthur's hands and placing the other on his broad shoulder. Arthur frowned at him, confused until Eames took his waist and stepped, dancing to imaginary music. He smiled again, letting Eames lead them in a soft, gentle waltz over to the balcony doors, snow drifting about outside, coating the Grand Place of Brussels with what would probably be slush come the third. With a dip, Arthur laughed and pulled away, embarrassed to not know the steps. Eames looked at his watch again.

"Eleven fifty eight."

"Have any New Years' Resolutions?" Arthur asked. Eames breathed deeply and then sighed, worming his way under Arthur's arm, now tossed over his shoulders. Arthur kissed Eames's forehead as the man made a thinking noise.

"I can't think of any at the moment," he admitted. "Tho I'm certain I have one, maybe even two. Do you have some?"

"The big one is that I'm quitting smoking," Arthur confessed and Eames frowned up at him.

"Why?"

"Cause I'm eighteen and have been inhaling tar into my lungs for four years," he replied. "It seems like the responsible thing to do. Besides, smoking is bad for you."

"But everybody," Eames said, in the tone he usually used when he was pointing out the obvious to Arthur, who had missed some logical element of a puzzle. "So, you know."

"Well said," Arthur agreed, hiding his laugh, and Eames nodded at him, lifting his wrist to look at his watch again.

"Thank you. Are you ready? Ready? Ready… Happy New Years!" he cried, throwing his hand into the air.

"Happy New Years, babe," Arthur echoed softly.

"Next time we'll find an actually party, I promise," Eames said, nuzzling Arthur's neck again.

"And it's perfectly fine with just the two of us," Arthur pointed out.

"You know, we should be at a party, because they say however you spend your New Year is how you'll spend the rest of the year and I know you'd tire of me eventually," Eames berated him, pulling away for a moment. Arthur shook his head, brushing Eames's hair (he needed a haircut) off his forehead.

"It would take much longer than a year, Mr Eames."

They didn't sleep until well into the New Year.


	10. Burning Cold Turkey

"Good morning, dearest," Eames greeted, seeming surprised by Arthur flicking the hall light on.

"Morning. T'as bien dormi?" Arthur asked as he meandered into the kitchen, stretching his arms high above his head. He scratched his ear as he lowered his arm. "What time is it?"

"It is," Eames began, glancing at his watch as he kicked the fridge shut with his foot, "four thirty four. Ha-ha. Four, three, four."

"Very clever," Arthur agreed, half-sitting against the table, watching Eames. The man was already showered and shaved, his suit slightly mismatched but overall he looked good. Arthur couldn't help but think how much he liked Eames's new haircut. "And you're awake, why?" Eames shrugged, depositing the milk on the counter and opening the can of coffee grounds.

"I've got to see a guy about a thing," Eames said vaguely, scooping coffee delicately into a filter. "I'd love to be more specific but I don't know much about the job and I lost the bit of paper that had his name on it, so, you know. It's a bit of a trip, it's in, uh." He tsked at himself as he opened the coffee maker to find the grounds from the coffee he'd made yesterday still wet inside. Arthur never forgot to take out the old grounds; it left the new coffee tasting old, in his opinion. Eames picked the filter up one handedly, balancing the new filter in the other, and pressed the lever on the garbage with his foot. "Wait, why are you awake?" he asked, looking up at Arthur, surprised.

"I adore the lovely smell of burning in the morning," Arthur replied, counting to three while waiting for Eames to catch on to why he'd been woken. Eames frowned at him, turning back to the coffee machine.

"Burning… shit!" he cried, dropping the grounds everywhere in a panic and leaping across the kitchen to lift the pan of ruined eggs off the stove. Arthur threw a hand in the air in exasperation, having climbed from bed to stop Eames from making more of a mess. "Damn it. I forgot I had eggs. Set my mind on toast and now I'm confused."

"Yeah," Arthur said, fake sympathy dripping from his voice. "Also, there are crumbs, open cupboards, smoke and coffee grounds everywhere so get out of my kitchen." Eames sighed, staring into his charred pan. "I'm serious," Arthur continued sharply when Eames looked up at him. "Get out of my kitchen; you suck." He put the pan on the counter with a sigh. Arthur was just thankful it was ceramic tile and one could leave hot pans on it without consequences.

"I'd be angry with you but you speak only the truth," Eames allowed, exiting the cooking area as ordered, sitting at the table sadly. Arthur hurried to turn off the stove, still burning away. "Besides, I can't stay mad at you when you're looking like that."

"Like what?" Arthur questioned, tossing the ruined pan in the sink to cool off. He'd give in a scrub in the actual morning, when he was more awake.

"Like someone who pulled himself out of bed to come to my rescue," Eames said. "Wearing my clothing as pajamas, you sweetheart, you." Arthur looked down at himself; he was wearing Eames's Manchester jersey over his usual flannel pants. He didn't understand why that made him a sweetheart. He practically swam in it but it was soft and warm and that was why he was fairly certain it was his now.

"It's less your rescue and more my poor kitchen's rescue. Look at this, Eames!" he cried, sweeping a hand over the mild chaos. He sighed heavily, shaking his head. "You are no longer allowed to cook without supervision."

"I'm not eight years old," Eames protested. "I know how to cook." Arthur scoffed, pulling the coffee carafe out and rinsing it quickly.

"No, you do not. I will give you a list of things in my kitchen that you are allowed to touch," Arthur said tightly, shutting the cupboard smacking his knees at the sink. Why were these cupboards even open? Eames hadn't taken anything off the shelves. "Milk, cereal, bowls, and spoons. Anything else and you require supervision."

"How am I supposed to get the milk if I can't touch the fridge?" Eames asked. Arthur scoffed at him. "You're just crabby because you want a smoke," Eames accused, unaffected by Arthur's disdain. Arthur flipped him off as he filled the back of the coffee machine with water. "You shouldn't quit cold turkey, you know. It can't be good for you. You can always wean yourself off of cigarettes. We let you do that before we take you out back and shoot you."

"I started cold turkey," Arthur pointed out, fixing Eames's mess of coffee grounds. Eames sighed at him, rubbing his temple, frustrated.

"You can't start cold turkey, Arthur; cold turkey is for stopping," he corrected. Arthur chuckled against Eames's annoyance, dimly aware of how proud Eames looked of himself whenever he made Arthur laugh. It was kind of cute. "I'm rather fond of you, you know."

"Rather is now the official definition of being fond enough of someone that you don't feel badly for dragging them out of bed before dawn," Arthur joked, putting the eggs and the butter away in the fridge. Eames laughed, eyes crinkling in that way Arthur liked. "Where is the job?" he asked softly after a moment of lingering in the silence. "How far will you be?"

"I'm flying to Minneapolis and then driving," Eames replied. Arthur nodded, pretending that didn't bother him as he dug peanut butter out of the cupboard, setting it next to a plate. "The job itself will take place in St Paul but we're doing the set about forty clicks south."

"I wish I'd known about this," Arthur said, looking over at his boyfriend over his shoulder. Eames nodded. His shirt was buttoned wrongly.

"I do too," he admitted. "I can't turn this down though. I only found out two days ago, love."

"I'm not mad," Arthur assured him, turning away. "I mean, I am mad but not logically. I'm just not in a good… mood."

"I'm certain that withdraw will be better if you ease your way into it," Eames offered as Arthur grabbed the toast as it popped and smeared peanut butter over it while it was still hot enough to melt smoothly. He knew Eames liked it when the peanut butter was practically liquid, usually hungry enough to eat a jam sandwich right after. "I worry about you just stopping like this."

"That was your theory when you thought the pool at Ontario Place was too cold," Arthur pointed out. "And I went on the water slide while you were mucking about easing your way into it. I think my theory ends with water slides and yours with small children splashing you against your will."

"You realize everyone else says little kids, not small children?" Eames said as Arthur laid the plate of peanut butter toast in front of him, grinning up at Arthur like a loon.

"Why are you giving me that look?" Arthur asked, feeling strangely self-conscious under the glow of Eames's soft eyes. "Do I have something—" As he reached up to touch his cheek, searching for peanut butter, Eames grabbed his wrist and pulled him into a soft kiss. "What was that for?"

"I'm going to miss you," Eames said. Arthur looked down. "It'll be a couple of months, I think."

"And you'll be careful," Arthur ordered, voice almost indistinct. Eames smiled sadly, his hand tightening slightly on Arthur's wrist.

"Yeah, yeah, I will be," he promised. "You will be too. I worry."

"Then you know how I feel," Arthur said, pulling out a chair to sit beside Eames, letting the man pull his chair flush against the other. Eames tossed an arm over Arthur's shoulders, pulling him close as he picked up his toast. The peanut butter dripped and Arthur smiled.

*

How was Arthur's skin so soft and cool, even after sex? Eames felt sticky and sweaty and too hot all over, but Arthur was still cool, if a little tacky with sweat. How was that possible, he wondered, listening to the steady, calming _thump thump_ of Arthur's heartbeat. He lay sprawled over Arthur's back, his head nestled between sharp wings of shoulder blades. His feet lay next to Arthur's on the pillow.

Eames ran his thumb along a perfectly circular scar, wondering when and why the teen had been burned with a cigarette in his youth. Arthur sighed happily, running his toes up Eames's ankle in reply. Eames grinned, even if the young man couldn't see it due to how they lay.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" he murmured, unsure if Arthur was even awake. He had a flight early in the morning; he did actually need his rest. Arthur had stopped over in Minneapolis on his way to a job in LA, giving he and Eames a delicious two nights together after nearly two months apart. Eames wished, again, that they could simply be with each other on jobs, but that entailed people knowing they were together and it could become dangerous. He was willing to take that leap, if it came down to it.

"Technically, you just did," Arthur pointed out dryly, a smart ass even after amazing sex. Eames felt himself grinning again despite the fact his question was kind of heavy. "But feel free to ask me another, if that's what you meant."

"Don't take this the wrong way," Eames ordered. Arthur wiggled underneath him, impatient.

"I don't know what you're going to ask; I don't know how I'll take it," he said. Eames kissed a silvery line crossing Arthur's ribs.

"Why won't you top?" he whispered. The soft, pliant form he'd been pillowed upon tensed. The tension didn't fade an iota and Arthur's heartbeat was now far from steady and calm. "You don't have to answer, if you don't want," he assured him. Arthur pulled away and Eames let him, watching him settle only a little ways away from Eames, pulling the hand that had been trying to calm him over, letting Eames sidle up behind him. Eames buried his face in Arthur's neck, hoping he hadn't said something he shouldn't have. "I just… I wanted to make sure you knew you could if you want. If you want to try and just weren't saying anything… I just wanted to be sure." He ran his hand up Arthur's side, trying to calm him the way he used to calm jittery horses on his aunt's farm when he himself was a boy.

"You know I care about you?" he asked after a long while, after the stiffness had faded from Arthur.

"Of course," Arthur replied immediately, pressing his hips back against Eames, reassuring him.

"And you trust me?"

"I… yeah."

"So you'd tell me if you wanted to—"

"Eames, I can't talk about this now, OK?" Arthur said, pulling away again. Eames tried to keep him from leaving but when Arthur's breath stopped in panic, he released the teen. Arthur rolled away, sitting on the edge of the bed. Eames suddenly wished they'd fallen back onto the mattress in the correct direction, just so he could hide his face in the pillows, even if Arthur was, decidedly, not looking at him. He settled for hiding his feet beneath them.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said finally, reaching out to find his discarded boxers. Eames's heart sank as Arthur put that tiny piece of armor back in place. "But I just can't do this now."

*

"You must be Arthur," the woman began, her smart black pantsuit not hiding the swell of a pregnant belly. Arthur stood, lifting himself off the hard, blocky leather couch, moving away from the low, modern coffee table to shake her hand. She walked further into the waiting room, accepting his hand easily.

"I am," he agreed, smiling politely. She smiled back and gestured to the hallway from which she had emerged.

"Shall we?" she asked.

"Of course," he agreed, following her through the sleek, cool hallways to the office door labelled 'Mallorie Cobb, Director'. Her office was large but not obnoxiously so; she led him to the desk and chairs, not the couches around another black, wooden table. The entire back wall was glass, opening on the expansive, sprawling downtown of Los Angeles. The walls were littered with modern art and the bookshelves with books and photos. Arthur recognized Paris, New York and London on one shelf. The bottom shelf held a photo of her and a blond man, both beaming, in front of Niagara Falls, and a photo from their wedding. She sat behind the desk, and he sat, at her beckon, in one of the comfortable leather chairs in front of the mahogany.

"Why don't you tell me a little about yourself before we get started?" she asked, laying a manicured, elegant hand on a manila file. "I'm Mal Cobb. I will be having a baby in a few months."

"Congratulations, by the way," Arthur offered as Mrs. Cobb smoothed a proud hand over her belly.

"It is good to be having a family. I love children and I am excited to love my own. You've worked one of our consultations before, but I know very little about you. My husband asks the good questions for the work, but I like to know the people."

"I'm Arthur," he began, feeling a little bit silly. "I'm eighteen. This will be my third job. I'm good at what I do because I'm careful." I'm Eames's boyfriend, he thought, not quite willing to say that aloud. That was a private thing, but he couldn't think of any other public facts. That one sentence kind of defined him, contained the majority of his being. What would happen if Eames disappeared? Was this why he'd been so panicked when Eames had been in trouble, because he was about to lose a part of himself too? "I can't think of much else to be honest, Mrs. Cobb."

"Please, call me Mal. Do you have a favourite colour?" she asked, smiling motherly at him. He smiled sheepishly back, feeling about five years old beneath the French woman's gaze.  

"It sounds kind of stupid, but I really like the colour grey," he admitted.

"Grey," Mrs. Cobb repeated kindly. "My favourite is blue. It is a good thing to know about a person, Arthur. What they like. This job," she said, "is very interesting. I am an extractor; my husband is an architect. This is a job where really we will need to have a point man who knows his affairs." Arthur nodded.

"You have worked two jobs and everyone who works with you sings your praises," she said. "You're very young."

"Yes," he agreed simply.

"Why haven't you gone to university? I went when I was your age," she said. He shrugged.

"It was never an option for me, Mrs. Cobb," he said. She hummed her sympathy and flipped the folder open, and he leaned forward, himself forgotten as he began to see in details and points and information.


	11. Trust

Arthur jerked awake, halfway to his gun before he realized it was his cell phone ringing. He picked it up, pulling it from its charger as he peered at the screen. _E calling…_ He frowned, wondering why Eames would be calling him at some ungodly hour of the morning. What if something had happened?

"Eames?" he greeted, settling back into bed. "What's going on? Are you OK?" He could hear the sounds of people in the background but he couldn't quite figure out the language they were speaking in over the static of long distance.

"Am I OK? I'm fine, why?" Eames replied, his voice, thankfully, coming over clear on the line.

"I just thought it was odd you were calling me at—" he lifted his head to peer at the alarm clock he'd set up in his leased apartment "—Eames, it's nearly four in the morning."

"No, it's not!" Eames protested. "It's almost seven; I googled the time change. I'm calling five minutes after you hit snooze on the alarm clock!"

"I'm in LA, not Toronto," Arthur pointed out.

"Oh. My bad. Should I call you back, then?" he said, sounding rather sheepish. Arthur sighed, tossing an arm over his eyes, holding the phone against his ear.

"I'm already awake. You can have me until I get sleepy again. Where are you that you needed to google it?" he asked tiredly.

"I'm in, uh, Budapest now, I think," Eames replied. "I couldn't get many flights to Europe so I've been on trains all day and I've got a while left before tomorrow. I have to sneak into England."

"Why are you sneaking into England?" Arthur asked, concerned. He didn't know the details (it felt rude to look them up and Eames hadn't shared) but he knew Eames was wanted in England for several things on warrants and charges that hadn't yet expired. Static crackled and for a moment, Arthur worried that the call had been dropped. He heard Eames sniff the way he did when he was nervous and he frowned again.

"My dad's sick and my aunt thinks I should visit him. You know, just in case," he said softly. Arthur's heart twisted at how small Eames's voice sounded and he wished he were in Budapest or where ever Eames was to sneak into England with him. "But they're at the hospital in Dover so it should be all right to get in and I'll see him."

"I'm so sorry, Eames," Arthur murmured. "That's terrible. I wish I could be there for you. Do you want me to come? Mrs. Cobb will understand if I take off for a couple—"

"No, I don't want him to meet you," Eames admitted. "It'll be all right, you know, I'll see him and it will be awful and it'll be OK. I haven't really been around much so. I should face my aunt on my own."

"I'm so sorry," Arthur repeated. "I'll be thinking of you, yeah?"

"Yeah," Eames echoed dimly. Arthur listened intently at the sounds of people and static, waiting for Eames. "Yeah. That shouldn't help, but it does. It'll be OK."

"Yeah, it will be," Arthur agreed.

"Believe it or not, that's not why I called," Eames continued, forcing his voice to be more chipper. Arthur let him change the subject. That wasn't something to talk about over the phone.

"Really?"

"Really, really," Eames said. "But I thought that I was calling you at an hour that you could see evidence of my success in the papers, but then I forgot that you were in LA, so you can’t yet."

"Should I call you back at eleven, when I wake back up?" Arthur asked.

"Eleven?" Eames asked.

"It's Saturday," Arthur pointed out. "I worked late last night so I am treating myself to a lie-in."

"And I ruined it!" Eames lamented. "What time… It's four now, your time and it's one PM here… So at eleven your time, it will be… Shit."

"Eight PM, right?" Arthur supplied. His mind's-eye drew up a picture of Eames in a foreign train station, shrugging at the phone.

"I dunno, maybe," he allowed. "Just… Yeah, I dunno. This was supposed to be super dramatic."

"Giant fail," Arthur offered.

"My train will be here soon, darling, I have to go," Eames said sadly.

"OK," Arthur replied. "I love you. Be safe, be careful."

"You too, love," Eames said. "You too."

*

_A calling…_

"Hello?"

"Hey," Arthur replied, voice hard. "What the hell is this?" Eames frowned, staring out the train window at the French countryside. He wasn't too far from Calais now, perhaps an hour left before he could sneak onto a ferry and make his way to Dover. Rain pounded against the rickety window and the tracks creaked a little as the train rounded a curve, bouncing Eames lightly on the bench seat.

"What do you mean? What's what?" he asked. "Is everything OK?"

"No, fuck, Eames!" Arthur cried. "Everything is far from OK!"

"What happened, gentle heart?" Eames asked softly, concerned.

"The paper, you idiot," Arthur snapped. "Your job. The one you just finished."

"Oh, that," Eames said. That job felt like it had taken place years ago. "What about it? I thought you'd be pleased!"

"Are you kidding?" Arthur demanded. "Please, tell me that is a joke. At what point did you think this would please me?" Eames shrugged desperately underneath his serge jacket. He was huddled on a freezing train and he was honestly tired of traveling. He never thought he'd look forward to getting to see his dad, even if it meant being finished with trains.

"I guess when I took the job," he said. "I thought, you know. Justice and all that."

"Justice," Arthur repeated dimly.

"Yeah," Eames said, slightly defensive. "Justice, Arthur. You were fifteen. I thought you'd maybe appreciate a bit of justice."

"I was fifteen and I'm over it now," Arthur said. "I never needed justice and I certainly didn't need you rooting about in my past!" Eames snorted, angry.

"You're over it," he echoed. "No, you're not. I've seen and heard your nightmares. You are far from over it."

"And that gave you the right to dig all of this up behind my back?" Arthur questioned. "You can judge my mental health and then perform extractions on my former customers?"

"You have a moral issue with me helping extract information from people who rent out child prostitutes?" Eames fired back.

"No! I have a problem with the fact that the child prostitute was me!" Arthur shouted, voice tinny and popping over Eames's Samsung. "Eames! This was private. It happened behind closed doors and it's not something I wanted to share with you. It's not the part of me I wanted you to see, do you get that?" he asked softly.

"I was just trying to help," Eames said stubbornly. "I just wanted you to get justice."

"How did you do the job?" he asked after a long while.

"We set up Velvet's headquarters in Toronto and he brought out his projection of you," Eames murmured. Arthur cursed but said nothing constructive. "You'd clearly been beaten black and blue and you looked about twelve. You're telling me you didn't need justice?"

"I didn't need my fucking boyfriend digging that out, no," Arthur replied sharply. "I would never invade your past like this. You practically performed an extraction on me!"

"That is so far from accurate," Eames scoffed, moving his phone to the other ear, tucking his now-free hand back into a pocket to be warmed.

"Bullshit," Arthur sneered. "I wouldn't dare take a job that would show me what your childhood was like. I don't ask because I know it's not my business."

"This is the type of thing we're supposed to share, Arthur!" Eames pointed out, his voice growing louder despite the fact he was trying oh-so-hard to keep it down. Thank goodness this car was next to empty. "We're supposed to know about the bad between us too. It's not my fault you never share anything."

"I never share anything?" Arthur repeated. "What do you want to hear, Eames? You want to hear that I was fourteen when Mackey picked me off the streets? That I never once wanted someone to lay their hands on me before I met you? That I used to be beaten by the girls at the brothel almost as much as the people I slept with? Or that the Senator you just fucked over was one of the most decent humans I've ever met? That he was one of about a dozen people who were ever gentle with me?"

"Yeah, I want to know that," Eames agreed harshly. "I want to help you."

"I'm not some broken baby!" Arthur snapped. "I don't need help! I don't want your help."

"You do, lovely," Eames insisted gently. "You do need it. Let me in. You need to trust me a little, to tell me this stuff, to talk to me and be honest—"

"You don't trust me," Arthur pointed out.

"With my life," Eames replied easily. "I trust you implicitly, Arthur. If I was blind and you told me to jump because I'd make it, I would. No hesitation."

"Liar," Arthur accused. "Nobody trusts like that."

"I do."

"I just… Eames, that projection you saw was me," he murmured after nearly two full minutes of listening to static and the other's angry breath. "That was a me I didn't want to remember and I didn't want you to see. You, you specifically, should have steered clear of this mark because it was so close to me. I can't believe you would nose into my past like that."

"I just wanted to help you," Eames said again. "I just want you to be able to sleep at night."

"I'm fine," Arthur lied. Eames sighed and listened to Arthur breathing, waiting for the change of subject he knew would come. How could this job have turned into such a mess?

"How far are you from England?"

*

Arthur popped the lid of his highlighter off with his thumb, lowering the yellow marker to the newspaper clippings he was poring over. The job was legal, well funded and had no set due date, but Arthur wanted to wrap things as quickly as possible. Eames was still in England and Arthur couldn't help but feel he should be there for him. It had been nearly three months since he'd stopped over in Minneapolis; far too long to go alone even without family troubles. He knew if his father were sick, he'd want as much support as possible. _You and Eames had very different fathers,_ he reminded himself.

Before he could become too lost in either his early-morning work or his thoughts, someone laid a coffee mug at his elbow. The yellow and red stripes seemed disgustingly cheery against the white of his notepad. The coffee inside smelled black and hot and wonderful.

"Thanks," he said, smiling up at Mal. Her brown hair was pinned back somehow and her eyes seemed very bright today. He wondered if all pregnant women were that bright and glowing. Had his own mum glowed like that? Had Eames's mother?

"You're welcome, Arthur," she replied. "You look worried. Tell me the problem." He shook his head with a shrug.

"A friend's having some family trouble," he said, trying to brush her off like he usually brushed people off. She waited for him to continue. "A parent's sick." She raised her brows slightly, settling down beside his desk into a big, winged wicker chair covered in afghans and scarves. The bright colours of the blankets and fabric contrasted with her navy dress, falling to her knees even over her belly. Arthur kind of wanted to feel the baby if it kicked, to prove that babies really did that, but it would simply be too weird to ask. He knew Mal liked him, and Cobb did too, but he didn't know the boundaries of the relationship. Even with Eames, the person he knew best, he didn't trust himself to really lead.

"More than a friend, I would say. You have the look I have when I worry about Dom," she told him, circling an elegant finger about her face. He shrugged, looking down at his papers. "It is OK to be concerned for someone you care about, you know."

"Yeah, I know," Arthur assured her. "I just wish I was there." He slid his left hand through the handle of the mug, warming his palm against the ceramic. His right hand didn't release the highlighter, tapping absently on a piece of lined paper.

"Why not go to them?" she asked, lifting her own coffee to her lips.

"They don't want me there," he confessed, refusing to look up, afraid Mal would see through him to all his vulnerabilities when Eames entered an equation. She hummed her sympathy, touching his hand with her own. Her skin was as cool as his was. "They told me not to come."

"That's hard, mon chou," she said, patting his hand. "Do you want some motherly advice? Or have you gone to your own mother for some?"

"My mum… I guess I'd like some from you," he admitted shamefacedly, looking up.

"Sometimes we don't want people to see us when things are hard. It isn't that your _petit ami_ doesn't trust you or like you," Mal told him. "It is hard to have the troubles in the family. You've eighteen years. You are young. They are young. It's hard to be young and to have the problems as these. It isn't that you aren't trusted. I see that worry on you and you don't need it." Eames is thirty, he thought, he's not as young as me. He knew he didn't really trust Eames, not the way he should, and he couldn't imagine that Eames trusted him back.  

"You've never even seen us together," he said shyly. "How do you know?"

"A mother knows these things, Arthur," she told him matter-of-factly. "A mother knows when she sees love." Arthur nodded, wondering how a mother that wasn't his could see it on him. She snatched her hand back and laid it on the ball of her stomach, tsking. "I'm trying to teach my baby that it is rude to kick when I am talking. _Et alors, il ne m'écoute pas_." She sighed, running her hand over her dress. "Give me your hand," she ordered suddenly, taking Arthur's hand from his highlighter and placing it above her bellybutton, holding his slender fingers in place with her own. Mal smiled into his eyes and he frowned back, unsure of what he was supposed to be feeling.

And then he felt it, that little kick of a child. He grinned against his will, feeling a bit like a simpleton as he stared at his hand in wonder. How could something be alive and so small and strong? He'd seen babies before, tiny and bald and sleepy in airports and streetcars. How did they kick that hard against a belly before even breathing air?

"Have you had brothers and sisters?" Mal asked, letting Arthur draw away after giving his hand a squeeze when the baby stilled. He shook his head, turning away once more. "This one can be your brother, Arthur. You will have to be close with it. You do too good work for Dom to let you get your head too deep and I think you need a _maman_ too much to let you get too far away. Are we right?" Arthur shrugged again, feeling young and tongue-tied and everything a point man wasn't supposed to be.

*


	12. Not What We Wanted

  
Eames hadn't intended to miss Arthur's call. The ICU didn't allow cell phones, and while rules didn't usually stop him, he worried that there were reasons for those rules in hospitals. The amount of machines within a hundred feet of him, all keeping people alive, kind of cowed him into turning his phone off and on in the lobby every hour or so, leaving his father's bedside to check pathetically for anything that could tear him away, or bring home to him.

He clicked the missed call button, pressing his phone to his ear as his aunt entered the lobby and glared at him lightly. He shrugged and she tapped her wrist; this was the third time he'd checked his phone this morning. He turned, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably as he kicked at invisible dirt. A plastic chair squeaked against tile and he knew his aunt intended on listening in. 

"Eames," Arthur answered, his voice oh-so-beautiful even if tinny . Not an ounce of background noise came through and, for once, Eames was glad he didn't have to imagine a setting for Arthur; he could pretend he was in the lobby with him. "How is everything?"

"I dunno, sweetheart," he replied slowly, wandering the small, beige and blue lobby. "He's being kept in ICU but the doctors don't expect much."

"Do they know what's wrong?" Arthur asked. Eames nodded absently.

"He's a drunk; his liver's failing," he replied shortly.

"Oh. Is he…" Arthur trailed off. Eames sighed. Arthur never crossed a boundary on his own in the relationship and Eames thought the question Is he going to die? was a fairly simple one, if not a question Arthur usually asked.

"Probably," Eames answered all the same. "It's shot, and the doctors can't do much… There aren't a lot of medical programmes to save a long-term drinker."

"And are you OK?" Eames shrugged at the phone and he felt Arthur nod across the line. Dimly, he wondered how that was possible. "Do you want me to come to you?" Arthur asked for the hundredth time since all this began. "I can, you know. I can let Cobb and Mal get used to the baby and come to you."

"They gave birth? A boy?" Eames guessed, a small photograph of a black baby staring up at him from a magazine advert on the low, lobby table. He frowned at it.

"Girl," Arthur corrected, a smile in his voice. "I don't know if she's been named yet. Mal's rooting for Anaїs but Cobb wants to name her something that the nurses don't mispronounce anus." Eames hummed a laugh and smiled sadly. "You're sure you're OK? What can I do?"

"I dunno," he said again. "Are you finished the job?"

 "We wrapped a few days ago," Arthur assured him. He wanted Arthur, needed Arthur with him but even so, it just felt so wrong to tear the teen away from a job in the industry he was trying so hard to get established in. For all he wanted to lecture Arthur about taking a leap every once in a while, he didn't quite feel he could dive into that. Work was important to Arthur and Eames had to understand it. "I can be there in the morning. Where should I meet you?"

"I'll pick you up." He meandered over to his aunt and sat down next to her, letting her pat his knee that way she always did, a useless comfort against realities then and now.

"I'll text you my flight info, then. I love you, Eames," Arthur promised. "I'll be there in the morning, OK? You'll be all right?"

"Not for a while, love," Eames admitted. "Not for a while." He hung up then, tucking the phone back into his pocket.

"Do you ever wash your trousers?" Aunt Valentine berated softly, picking at a thread.

"It's been proven that trousers don't get dirty unless you literally sit in mud," Eames replied tiredly, leaning his head against the wall behind them. Val followed suit, folding her hands on her lap. She was wearing a pair of dark corduroys under her horrid, hand knit mauve jumper. Eames wondered where the hell she found the time to knit these days. Perhaps her life wasn't as hectic as his felt, always working on a job or on a relationship.

"Who did you call?" she asked. "Do I finally get to meet the little lady you left behind to come down here?" She grinned at him and he shook his head, annoyed.

"I don't have a lady," Eames reminded her. "I've got my boyfriend, right, Aunt Val?" He looked down at her and she pursed her lips, looking away. "Don't give me that look. Calling a woman to come down here would be the exact same thing."

"I know my brother never did right by you," Val began, "but I just don't think that gives you the right to bring some nancy into a hospital."

"You've got one sitting next to you," he offered, "but I'll take off it you don't think nancy boys should—"

She shook her head, slapping his knee sharply. "That's not the same thing. We didn't want you to be that way," she snapped.

"There's nothing wrong with it," he told her. "I'm happy with who I am and who I'm with." He sighed and she echoed him.

"What are we going to do about your father?" she asked.

"He's sick," Eames said simply. "And it's his own damn fault."

"You can't speak about your father like that, young man," Val ordered.

"He's forty-nine," Eames pointed out. "He wouldn't be sick if he had an ounce of sense instead of a bottle every once in a while. I haven't even seen him since I was sixteen. He doesn't recognize me."

"You're his son and he loves you," Val insisted. "He may not have been affectionate but he cares. You broke his heart when you left, just like your mother did, you know."

"I left because he hit me. I was a kid and I was in the right," Eames said, the words old on his tongue, an intangible reasoning that had lost all taste and meaning. He wasn't sure if he believed it anymore. "There isn't anything we can do for him. He's dying and he's an alcoholic. People like him don't get help from hospitals." Valentine shook her head fiercely, her greying, blonde bangs falling into her face, breaking free of her tight bun. Eames wondered how, genetically, he looked so much like her and so little like his father, right down to her lips. Thank god he wasn't as slender as she; he was already short, but at least being built helped disguise it.

"He's my brother," Val said, sounding like the Frog Prince was stuck in her throat. "You understand that, don't you? I have to love him despite his faults the same way I have to love you despite the fact you're a bit pink." Eames nodded slowly, enveloping his aunt in a hug when she began to cry. She crushed her head against his shoulder, her hot tears wetting the fabric of his orange tee shirt.

"It's OK, Aunt Val," he lied, pressing his lips to her hair. It always made him feel better when Arthur did that; maybe it would help her too. "It's all going to be OK."

*

Arthur hated planes. He didn't fancy himself to be claustrophobic or afraid of heights. It wasn't even that he was really afraid; he just felt this general malaise whenever he was in the air. Trying to get to England proved to be awkward, if not difficult. He'd gone from LA to Minneapolis to New York before landing in Montreal. At least he would land at Heathrow soon, before he'd get picked up by Eames. He'd insisted that he could find his own way down to Dover, that Eames should stay with his family.

Eames insisted right back that if he didn't get a break from his family soon he'd lose it.

Arthur didn't know Eames's family and he didn't fancy himself to be a judgmental or prejudiced person, but he wasn't sure if he liked any member of the Eames family aside from Eames himself. He clearly disliked Eames's father, and he wasn't the biggest fan of the elusive Mrs. Eames, for all Eames defended her and her decision to leave him behind. Eames had always seemed fond enough of his aunt, if their relationship was a little distant. But Eames would be moving out of her house to stay in the hotel with Arthur because his aunt didn't, as Eames said, "approve of two men living together like we do". Arthur hadn't asked outright but he felt that that meant Aunt Eames wasn't a fan of gays.

I wonder what she would say about my former profession, Arthur wondered dimly as his ears popped with descent.

That was another thing about flying, he realized. With no other form of transportation did people universally experience mild vertigo and popping ears. It was downright unpleasant.

The Asian woman next to him sneezed, a rather amusing, high pitched achoo. She glanced at him apologetically and he pulled out a clean, white handkerchief from the inner pocket of his coat, offering it to her with a smile. She accepted and they exchanged nods of thanks and welcomes.

"We'll be landing in about twenty minutes," the flight attendant began and Arthur sighed, leaning his head against the window. He hated planes.

*

Eames bounced on his toes, peering over the crowds, searching for that familiar dark head. His flight had landed and Eames couldn't wait to see him again. He hadn't seen Arthur since that weekend in Minneapolis, at the end of February. He'd been waiting for Arthur for nearly a half hour; his flight was late but it should be on the ground now. Arthur should be coming through that door any second.

"Arthur!" he called, spotting him, button down open over a t-shirt, his dark jeans contrasting with the white and blue. "Arthur!" He raised an arm, waving it over his head. Arthur's dark, dark eyes found him and Eames smiled.

Arthur smiled one of those genuine, full smiles in return, all dimples and crinkly eyes. A few people, besides Eames, noticed how fucking gorgeous that smile was and Eames should have been jealous. But Arthur didn't even consider anyone else in the airport; he wove through the crowds, tossing his duffle bag down at Eames's feet, and leapt into his arms.

Eames knew he should try and maybe say hello, ask how are you?, say I missed you, say I don't ever want to leave your side again, but his throat had stopped working. He settled for burying his face in Arthur's neck, crushing his arms about slender hips. Eames breathed deeply, Arthur's crisp scent filling his head with dirty, dirty thoughts.

"Eames," Arthur said softly when he finally peeled his arms from around Eames's neck, leaving one hand to linger on each collarbone. Eames nodded dumbly. "It's so good to see you."

"I think you are perfect and I would like to kiss you," Eames blurted. "I can think up something clever or poignant if you'd prefer, but I wanted to say that first."

"I'm far from perfect," Arthur admitted. "But you can kiss me, whenever you want."

The kiss wasn't soft or gentle. It was the kiss of lovers kept apart for far too long, a kiss of joy and longing and don't you dare leave me alone again.

"Maybe," Arthur said, pulling away. "We should get to my hotel room." Eames nodded again, releasing Arthur's hips to scoop up his bag.

"That's a wondrous idea."

*

_He flung the door open as his mother fell to the ground, sobbing and screaming her apologies through her tears. She huddled against the fridge, pressing her face into the ancient surface, trying to hide. Blood from the scrape on her cheek smeared the white and her husband threw a bottle, shattering above her head. Glass flew everywhere and she tried to curl into herself, her tears hot against swollen cheeks. His father lurched over to her and she curled her arms about her head._

The teen threw his school bag to the ground, running over to his father. The neighbours leaned out of their doorway, watching through open doors the scene they'd been listening to through the thin, thin walls.

"Dad!" the boy yelled, grabbing the arm that poised to deliver a blow to the young, crying woman. "Dad, stop!" The older man spun, shaking his son off of his arm roughly. "You can't hit her."

 His father wound up his arm, striking his son. The boy tried to fight back, small and young against the older man. He didn't fall until the third blow.

"Please, stop," his mother begged, huddled in the kitchen as her husband drew his leg back and kicked, knocking the air out of small lungs. "Please, baby, stop!" Her son curled his knees to protect his delicate belly from the blows, his arms wrapped about his head. His father spat ugly words and his mother sobbed, helpless. The neighbours shut their door and he realized that no one would ever help him. He held in his own tears, knowing men didn't cry—

Eames jerked awake as a cool, cool hand touched his cheek. He peeled his eyes open, looking up at Arthur's beautiful, concerned face, upside down. His head was pillowed on Arthur's crossed legs. Arthur was perched at the foot of the bed and Eames wondered why he kept falling asleep with his feet on the pillows.

"Welcome back," Arthur murmured, moving his hand up into Eames's hair, scratching his nails lightly across Eames's scalp the way he liked. "You were dreaming for a while, babe. Did you go somewhere nice?" Eames sighed, leaning into Arthur's touch.

"I wasn't in Kansas, Dorothy," he replied. Arthur frowned at him.

"Dorothy?" he repeated. "Are you feeling all right?" He pressed his other hand to Eames's temple. "You don't feel too warm…"

"Dorothy, you know, Wizard of Oz," he prompted and Arthur blinked at him. "It's a movie, never mind."

"You were having a nightmare," Arthur accused, adding his other hand to Eames's hair. He sighed his contentment again, closing his eyes. "What happened?"

"Nothing, darling," he said. "I'm all right."

"Liar," Arthur accused softly. He dropped a kiss to Eames's lips. "Your father just died. You're not all right. What were you dreaming about?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he muttered stubbornly. Arthur tugged lightly at his left ear.

"You're the one always telling me that I need to talk about my nightmares," he pointed out. "Way to lead by example."

"Do you ever talk about them?" Eames fired back. "No, so don't judge." He opened his eyes and Arthur leaned down to kiss him again. "God," he whispered when Arthur pulled away, staring at those soft, soft lips. "I need a cigarette." He didn't make a move to go and smoke on the hotel balcony though; Arthur's fingers were still working their magic on his hair.

"I haven't had one of those in almost six months," Arthur bragged. Eames gave him a half-grin.

"I hadn't seen my father in almost fifteen years," Eames confessed. Arthur nodded, stroking his way across Eames's scalp, his light touches floating Eames's heavy heart. "I didn't even come back until he was about an inch off of Death's doorstep. I'm his son; shouldn't I have taken better care of him?" he asked, searching out Arthur's eyes. "Even if I'd come back to visit him, maybe there would be a semblance of a relationship there today. Respect thy father and all that."  
   
"I don't think mere proximity is what would have helped," Arthur said. "Motion doesn't mean progress. Rocking horses can rock all day on and not move a centimetre."


	13. Some Days, Most Days

Eames watched Arthur tap away at the keyboard, a light frown on his face as his fingers danced over letters and numbers. He leaned against the doorframe, mildly entranced. Arthur's legs were crossed, his flannel sleep pants contrasting darkly with the sheets of their unmade bed. They'd been working, together for once, the same job for about two weeks, set up in a rented studio apartment in Vancouver. The light from the main room streamed past Eames, highlighting Arthur's cheekbones beneath the shadows of his hair. Eames didn't know what was more entrancing: his brow furrowed in concentration or the way the scars on his deltoids and biceps cast long shadows across his arms in the half-light. He wasn't sure what drew Arthur's attention to him, but suddenly the other man looked up, meeting Eames's eyes.

"What can I do for you?" Arthur asked sarcastically, fingers not stilling as he gave Eames a wondering look, watching him stare. Eames grinned.

"I'm never entirely sure what you can do," he said. "You seem to just whip talents out from nowhere."

"I didn't know you found competency to be a turn on," Arthur replied dryly, turning his eyes back to his screen.

"I find you to be a turn on," Eames corrected. "It is torture not acting as though we're together in front of out colleagues, you know."

"Well, them's rules," Arthur said absently. He glanced up at Eames again, his business face still on even as his hair fell loose. "Quit staring. You're freaking me out."

"Not staring at you is difficult when you've been walking around me all day today in a cloud of your loveliness and I haven't been allowed to touch," Eames replied smartly. Arthur snorted his amusement. Eames pushed off the doorframe, meandering over to the bed and enjoying the way Arthur tried to not smile at him and failed. Eames touched the back of Arthur's laptop, pausing.

"Are you working on something that will be ruined if I slam this down and ravish you?" he asked, hoping the answer was no. Arthur's fingers paused, hitting command S. He lifted his hands from the keyboard and Eames took his cue, slamming the screen down. He lifted the machine off of Arthur's lap, laying it gently upon the nightstand. Eames placed one knee on the bed, leaning over to kiss Arthur, bracing himself with a hand on Arthur's thigh. Arthur kissed back with a force all his own and Eames rubbed his thumb along the gentle inseam of his sleep pants. Arthur made a noise against his lips, delicate and sweet.

Arthur cupped the back of Eames's neck with one hand, resting his forehead against the forger's lightly, sighing happily.

"Some days we've got it all, huh?" Eames asked, his eyes soft and adoring as they watched Arthur's face. He smiled back at Eames, a full smile, all dimples and freckles. Eames touched the other's face, running his fingers along the other's cheekbone. Arthur lowered his own hand to Eames's shoulder, stroking through his shirt at where a gunshot mark lay, poorly stitched and long since scarred over. Eames wondered when and why Arthur had memorized his scars.

"Some days we do all right," he agreed.

*

When Arthur said no to lunch, Eames wondered if something was up. He'd asked discreetly, and usually Arthur would allow them to have coffee and sandwiches together on jobs, if Eames stopped flirting with him in front of everyone for an afternoon or so. They were only working with one other person, as it was. When Arthur wasn't there when he'd returned from a coffee run, one he made all alone, Eames was mildly concerned. Lydia, the extractor they were working with, didn't seem worried at all. He dropped Lydia's paper cup of coffee next to her flies, drawing her attention only briefly.

"Thanks," she said dimly.

"You're welcome," he replied by rote. He lowered himself into his chair, trying to bury himself into his work. He had to choose someone to forge, to figure out how to dissemble enough that they could get into the mark's mind seamlessly. He glanced up at Arthur's empty desk and sighed. He stilled his leg, bouncing on the ball of his foot, and turned to Lydia.

"Where'd the Kid go?" Eames asked, using the nickname she used for Arthur in place of his actual name. He noted that the blonde, who could navigate a PASIV and a dreamscape, was frowning confusedly at an iPhone, the screen unlit. Eames considered himself to be old; Lydia was practically ancient, nearing fifty with little to no grace about it. Her chain-smoking made Eames feel like he would die if he didn't get real oxygen, and couldn't imagine that, even if it had been something like six or seven months, being constantly surrounded by clouds of blue could be very helpful to Arthur's endeavour to become a non-smoker.

"He said he had some stuff to do; he'll be in tomorrow," she replied, not sparing Eames a glance. "This thing has one button. One."

"Well, it's a touch screen," Eames replied. "What's he doing?"

"The Kid?" Lydia clarified, finally looking up at Eames. "I've touched the screen. Nothing happened."

"Is the phone on?" he asked, moving away from his desk, and Arthur's meticulous notes on the mark's secretary, mistress and sisters, to snatch the phone from Lydia. She lit another cigarette. Eames blinked at her, always mildly awed. He enjoyed smoking, but he couldn't imagine wanting a hit of nicotine so badly he'd actually light a new cigarette with the one he was currently smoking. That was where he drew the line.

"He didn't say what he was doing," she replied, watching him press the top button, turning the phone on. "But you've worked with him before; you know him. He's doing something useful. I think he might be following the mark again. He's trying to pick up a new client so his appointment diaries might shift in the next couple of days. The Kid says that'll set us either forward or back a few days and he'd like to be ready for both."

"What's your passcode?" Eames asked, turning the phone to show her the screen of numbers. She shrugged.

"What's a passcode?" she fired back. Eames sighed, hitting the top button and darkening the screen.

"Maybe just call someone with the landline," he offered, handing her the iPhone again. "I don't think you have the capacity to use this." Lydia shrugged again, twin jets of smoke blasting from her nose. She stood, wandering off to find a real phone somewhere in the rest of the rented house that served as their base. He sighed again, wandering back to his own desk.

He didn't like working without Arthur to distract him, especially when they were actually working the same job. He sat heavily in his chair, the office chair creaking under his weight. "Shut up," he muttered at it. "I'm not that fat." He spun to face his notes and the swiveling joints whined. He rolled his eyes.

 _Though Ms. Johnson has no official accounts, a day-by-day schedule can be roughly drawn out to follow and study her based on her credit card stubs. For example, Mondays, she eats lunches at Sully's Café with her sister, Mary. Detailed outlines can be found on page seven. Another potential…_  
  
Eames's phone buzzed and he leaned back in his creaky chair to pull the Samsung from his pocket.

06/16 1:45PM  
A: Hey can you be back home by six? Oar re you following someone today-

Eames frowned, wondering how his home-time could possibly be relevant if Arthur was off working, presumably following someone as well. He tapped out his answer, listening absently to Lydia's smoky voice in the next room over on the landline, complaining to her husband. He started to lean back to his files before his phone buzzed again.

06/16 1:47PM  
A: Fuck you Im not blowing off anything. not work. Can you b eback at six? And PS - I don't suck at typing.

He grinned at Arthur's message and the typos, thoroughly enjoying the one inane thing at which he seemed to be better than Arthur. Admittedly it was just texting, but it was a victory nonetheless. He clicked out an affirmative and returned to his work as Lydia came back into the bullpen. He watched her sit, lifting her own files as she leaned back in a non-squeaky chair, tapping ash into a coffee mug. Arthur had never let him light up inside apartments or hotels, even when they both smoked. He couldn't get used to smoking inside, not after nearly…

Jesus, he'd been with Arthur for a year and a half, about. They'd met not last November but the one before last. That made eighteen months. Admittedly, they'd been apart the better part of the time since this past January, but Eames hoped he could correct that. They could always work together, be together, if Arthur would agree to be a bit easier about people knowing they were together. At the very least, they could be a package deal. A pointman was needed on almost every big job, and Arthur was a decent architect for small ones. His designs lacked a certain imagination, perhaps, but Eames found them perfectly acceptable. The both of them were excellent muscle, in reality or in the dream, and having a forger meant so many more plans could be acted out. They'd be a great package deal.

Maybe he'd try and broach the subject tonight when he got home at six specifically. He smiled softly. _Arthur can be a nut sometimes,_ Eames mused dimly. But he supposed that was why he enjoyed him so.

"It's cute, you know," Lydia said suddenly. Eames looked up at her and quirked a brow. "That you're friends with the Kid," she clarified.

"What makes you think we're friends?" Eames asked. Lydia shrugged.

"Well, for one thing, he's not that put off by the fact a man on the wrong side of thirty is constantly hitting on him," she pointed out. Eames laughed.

"It's not constant," he corrected jokingly. "I think of it as sporadic."

"He's not bothered by it so I won't tell you to knock it off," she said, tapping her cigarette again against the rim of the coffee mug.

"Good to know this office has a lax sexual harassment policy," Eames replied. "Too bad you're married or I'd get to expand." She grinned, huffing out a little laugh, knowing he wasn't really serious.

"I'm flattered you think I'm flirt-worthy, at my age. And I can't say I blame you," she sighed, turning back to her work. "He's very handsome. Incredibly intelligent. If I wasn't married, I'd hit on him too, sporadically or no." Eames turned back to his own work. He was definitely not bothered by that comment. And he had no right to be; she didn't mean anything by it, and he was supposed to be pretending to not be Arthur's boyfriend. Non-boyfriends didn't get to be bothered and jealous.

He really needed to talk to Arthur about that.

It was six fifteen and Eames could hear Arthur puttering about the main room beyond the entry hall, the radio on and lilting softly. He shut the door behind him, tossing his keys into the little bowl on the credenza by the door Arthur had placed there. He used to lose his keys constantly in pockets and couches and jackets and laundry machines. Now, they were always in that small, blue-green, glass bowl. Arthur's keys nestled next to his own in the small bowl, happy and at home.

"Arthur, darling?" he called, kicking off his shoes. "What's so important about six o'clock?"

"Don't come in," Arthur ordered sharply. "Wait." Eames froze in the entry, listening intently. He heard Arthur shuffling about and then two tiny, odd, clicking noises. He frowned.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, concerned, scratching his neck awkwardly as he lingered in the entry to his own home. "Did something happen?"

"Yeah, it's all fine," Arthur replied. "OK. You can come in." Eames crept slowly, socked feet, into the main room, wondering why none of the lights were on. He stopped dead at the sight of the kitchen table. He grinned stupidly, staring at Arthur and the table.

"You baked me a cake," he said happily, watching Arthur smile, almost shyly, lighter still in hand. The number-shaped candles burned away and he gestured at the flames with his free hand, the tiny lights as orange as bits of the icing. "It's paisley. How the hell did you make paisley icing?"

"It wasn't too hard, actually," Arthur said. "You can blow them out, if you want. The candles. People do that in movies." Eames nodded dimly, admiring the cake.

"You know, the cake isn’t the only thing I see that looks too good to eat," Eames said. Arthur rolled his eyes. "Too cheesy for you, lovelet?"

"Just blow out the candles," Arthur ordered. "They're dripping wax everywhere. It'll ruin the icing." Eames let Arthur seat him at the table. He leaned forward, Arthur's hand cool through his shirt, and blew lightly. The two candles flickered and died, flames extinguished with a single, silent breath. "Happy birthday," he said softly.

Eames confessed, running his hand up Arthur's slender arm and enjoying the way the younger man leaned into the touch, "Most days, I'm happy."

*

"Take her," Mal repeated. Arthur shook his head, taking a step back. Dom had picked Arthur up at the airport, convincing him to stay at the house until he could find an apartment to call home here in Los Angeles. He'd be working more and more frequently with the Cobbs, especially since the University had hired them to push the boundaries of dreaming, to find out what lay beyond the first level, or if there was anything at all.

"No, no, I couldn't," he replied, raising his hands pleadingly for a moment. She sighed.

"Arthur," she said sternly. "Take your sister." He shook his head desperately.

"What if I drop her?" he demanded, sounding so sincere, Mal had to actively try to not laugh. She shifted Phillipa in her arms, moving back towards Arthur. Phillipa followed Arthur with her quiet, alert eyes, intrigued at the stranger. Arthur had come back after working a consult in Vancouver; Phillipa hadn't met him yet. Mal worried that Arthur might be away too long, but he was back and she didn't intend on letting him out of her sight for a while. "I'll drop her and she's a baby: she'll go splat."

"How many babies have you dropped?" she fired back. She wondered if the boy ever dressed his age. He'd come off the plane in a dress shirt and sweater over slacks. Dom went to work more casually some days.

"Well, zero," he admitted. "But I've held zero too, so I can't say that's a good example." She blinked at him.

"You've never held a baby before?" she repeated. "You've eighteen years, Arthur. How have you never held a baby?" He shrugged defensively at her, blushing.

"I've never known anyone who had a baby before," he said.

"Phillipa is your sister," Mal said firmly. "You need to learn to hold her. You won't drop her, I promise. See how I've got her? Do the same. That's all there is to it." She held Phillipa out and the terrified boy took her, arms stiff for a moment before Phillipa wiggled and they moulded around her, cradling her and supporting her neck without being told. Phillipa cooed and fisted Arthur's sweater. He smiled nervously, looking up at Mal for a moment. She smiled encouragingly at him and he grinned, watching Phillipa's pleased, tiny face intently. She kicked a foot and Mal had known he wouldn't drop her.

"She likes me," he laughed softly. "I didn't think she'd like me." Mal watched the boy bounce the baby gently, earning another happy coo. Mal smiled at the sight of him with her daughter.

"Do you think you'll like living in LA?" she asked, settling into a wicker chair in the corner of the nursery. He nodded, still entranced by the baby.

"Yeah, it should be OK," he said. "I'm easy, as far as home bases go. Just about anywhere and I can figure it out."

"How do your parents feel with you so far away?" she asked. The question had occurred to her when she'd first met Arthur; how did his parents feel about their son going into mind crime? He hadn't ever mentioned them, but he was a private person, not mistrusting, just quiet. She didn't know much about him in terms of facts; all she had was her observations against Dom's. His head snapped up to look at her, blinking owlishly. He very deliberately looked back down at Phillipa.

"I don't know," he said flatly. "They died when I was little. I don't know how they would've felt about it."

"I'm sorry," Mal offered. She practically weighed herself down with sympathy. The poor boy. She was an adult in every way, married and with a child, but even still, she couldn't fathom losing her parents. "Who takes care of you, then?" Arthur snorted dryly and she wondered what joke she was missing.

"I took care of myself," he said finally. "Look, look, look! Phillipa's falling asleep, look!" Phillipa's eyes had closed sleepily and she gave Arthur a toothless, open-mouthed baby yawn. He grinned stupidly and Mal wondered how the boy could be so deadly and efficient but still so silly and gentle at times. She watched his awe as Phillipa drifted off in his arms, safe and warm.

*

"I am working on it," Arthur replied firmly, one hand holding his phone to his ear and the other stirring dinner. Eames sneaked up behind him, wrapping his arms around that slender, gorgeous waist. He was fairly certain he'd left bruises there from their bout of lovemaking last night, but Arthur wasn't the type to complain about that sort of thing. Arthur pushed his hips back against Eames, smiling slightly. Eames pressed his face against that one spot on Arthur's neck and the pointman snorted in a highly unattractive manner, nearly dropping the phone. He elbowed Eames's ribs with a half-glare, half-grin. Eames chuckled, moving away. "That was nothing. I didn't make a weird noise." Arthur stuck his tongue out at Eames as the forger leaned against the counter on the opposite side of the kitchen, plucking a cherry tomato from the salad and popping it in his mouth. Arthur rolled his eyes at Eames's cheeky grin and turned back to his cooking.

"It's complicated. No, I realize that. I know that. I just don't see how we're supposed to convince them of it," Arthur told Cobb.

"Use the Force," Eames suggested. Arthur spun and shot him an annoyed, confused look.

"I'm on the phone," he whispered to Eames. He turned away, turning the stove off. "I—No, no one. I'm listening. I will work on it. OK. No, I know. I know. Yeah. OK. Tomorrow then?"

Eames recognized Arthur's "I'm almost done the call" tone and crept up behind him again. He wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist again and he received a warning glare. He propped his chin on Arthur's shoulder benignly and waited.

"Yes, I agree. How are... Good. Yeah, tomorrow. Have a good—" Eames pressed his face to Arthur's ticklish neck again, kissing his soft, sensitive skin and the younger man made a bizarre noise, right into the phone, a cross between a snort and a giggle and a scream.

"What the hell is that?" Eames heard Cobb demand. He kept his arms tight around Arthur, biting the soft skin softly. Arthur gave a little scream, elbowing Eames hard. He dropped his boyfriend with an _ouf_ and a laugh.

"You ass," Arthur snapped, face red and laughs still bursting through a little. "Sorry, Cobb," he said to his boss "Everything is fine, I was being tickled. I totally agree. It's completely inappropriate when talking to your boss. OK. Tomorrow." He hung up, rounding on Eames.

"I am going to get you back," he laughed. Eames schooled his face into a pout. "Oh, puppy eyes won't help you now. My revenge will be sweet and you will never see it coming."

"I see through everything," Eames replied arrogantly. "I will destroy your revenge."

"Strain the pasta," Arthur ordered. Eames pecked his cheek and, for once, obeyed. "And we're not going to force them to do anything. That won’t help."

"No, not by force, The Force," Eames clarified. He poured the pasta back into the pot and Arthur blinked at him. "The Force. Honestly, Arthur? The Force." Eames demanded, accepting the bottle of olive oil from Arthur. He drizzled the pasta with the olive oil. Arthur always made pasta with olive oil, but to Eames it tasted the exact same without.

"This is what annoys me most about you," Arthur told him. "You say these incredibly nonsensical things and then act like I'm the one being strange."

"The Force?" Eames repeated, stuck in disbelief. Arthur was kidding; he knew what Star Wars was, right? His parents were stoners. How had he not seen the films?

"See, that's an insane thing to say. And then, last week, when I left for work, you made a V with your hand and said live long and prosper. Do you understand why that's weird? People don't speak like that."

"Vulcans do!" Eames cried. Arthur sighed, pushing off the counter he was leaning on. He hip-checked Eames lightly out of in front of the stove. He picked up the pot of pasta sauce and poured it into the pasta pot.

"You're not making sense," Arthur told him. Eames sighed.

 "You are just a black hole of pop culture. I don't know if I can repair that."


	14. French and Findings

"When do we get to meet him?" Mal began softly, rocking chair creaking. Arthur looked up at her, pausing in notarizing Cobb's long, rambling notes about constructing the dreamscape to be able to support a second layer. The notes weren't well organized and the University wanted to run a short article in the alumni magazine to gain them even more funding. The first layer needed to be strong if it had to support a dream within a dream. Cobb was confident that they were getting close to creating a subconscious level real enough to carry two non-realities. He'd told the University they could go even deeper if given enough time. Arthur agreed that it was possible, but too many people lost reality with one level to separate from real life. More than two would be inviting their minds to become lost, he thought.  


"Whom?" he asked, confused, cross legged on the floor. Mal had a habit of entering the middle of a conversation Arthur didn't remember beginning. She and Cobb had connected their minds on some level Arthur had never seen before, carrying out whole conversations and discussions over Arthur's head with basic touches and words. He wasn't privy to their mind-radio and she seemed to forget that not everyone was the same part of her that her husband was. Phillipa was nearly asleep again in her mother's arms, rocked and warm in her onesie. She'd grown a lot since Arthur had first met her, for all she was still tiny and delicate. The bright light of mid-afternoon streaming into the sitting room from big, welcoming windows never seemed to impede the baby from sleeping.

"Your boyfriend," Mal answered easily, kicking the ground. Arthur coughed in surprise. "When do I get to decide if he's good enough for you?"

"What makes you think I don't have a girlfriend?" Arthur asked, laying his pen down. Maybe it was leftover slime from dealing with Val Eames but Arthur had been feeling a bit apprehensive about the way Mal and Cobb would react when they finally found out that he had a boyfriend, let alone one that was their age. It seemed they already knew at least a part of it. Mal shrugged, stroking her daughter's forehead gently.

" _Tu n'as pas une copine_ ," Mal said. " _T'as un copain_."

"I'm not denying it," Arthur hedged, sliding into his easy French at her switch, "but how did you know?"

"I knew because I knew," she began, "but also you came in the other day with the beard burn on the side of your neck." Arthur's eyes widened, shocked. He felt himself getting red in the face. Mal just smiled knowingly and fucking winked. He looked away, completely and utterly abashed. "Unless you are dating the bearded lady, I felt that confirmed it. When do we get to meet him?"

"We'll have to talk about it," he said slowly, staring at his notes, spread on the coffee table. She nodded.

"Is he good for you?" she asked, giving him that look that cut through everything and saw the core of him. He wondered how she could do that and, more importantly, why it didn't bother him that she could.

"I think so," he said. "I hope so." Mal hoisted herself to her feet, shifting the sleeping babe in her arms. He sighed, rubbing his forehead and wondering how he'd been so careless to show up at work with Eames's equivalent of a hickey.

"I have to put Phillipa down," she said, clearly wanting to discuss the matter further. Arthur couldn't think of something he wanted less. "Arthur, look at me." He looked up at her. She was partially silhouetted in the doorway and Arthur wondered if Phillipa would be as beautiful as her mother. "We still adore you. We'll always adore you."

*

Eames sighed happily as Arthur pressed his head back into Eames's warm shoulder. His strong fingers were tangled in dark hair, still damp from their shower. They were cuddling on the couch in Arthur's LA apartment, a simple pleasure they didn't indulge in often enough. Arthur lounged in the safe circle of Eames's arms, heavy, as they watched bad, late-night TV. The point of the game show had something to do with jumping over big red balls and not falling into water, but Eames wasn't really paying attention. Arthur pressed against him; snuggling was distracting.

Eames had found a job just north of LA, close enough that he could stay with Arthur. It was complicated enough that Eames could be in LA for months before the set-up work was even finished, let alone his part of the prep. They'd both demanded the Friday and the weekend off (the Cobbs were happy to allocate, Eames's boss less so) and they hadn't even left the apartment yet. They'd been lounging about mostly being sappy and domestic when they managed to leave the bedroom. Arthur stretched lightly, wrapping one hand around Eames's elbow, his arm tossed over the lean chest.

"Can I tell you something?" Arthur asked quietly. His voice was soft and serious in a way Eames didn't like. He squeezed the younger man reassuringly.

"Of course," he said easily. The half-light of the city at night cut through the dark and cast strange shadows on Arthur's face, bluish light of the TV flickering across them. Arthur swallowed nervously and Eames frowned, wondering what would make the teen nervous.

"I don't think I'll ever top," he blurted. Eames nodded slowly, absorbing that piece of information. "I just…" Arthur shifted against Eames, bony shoulder digging in a way that should be uncomfortable but somehow wasn't; their bodies just fit.

"Why not?" Eames prompted, keeping his arms gentle and warm around Arthur's small frame. "What scares you about it?"

"It's hard to explain," Arthur whispered, barely audible. Eames kissed his hair.

"Try," he ordered. Arthur nodded, pressing his head against Eames's broad shoulder. Eames rested his cheek on Arthur's head, staring at their feet, propped up on the coffee table beside each other's, Arthur's feet bare and Eames's tucked into a blue and a green sock, respectively. He stared at his feet, ignoring the way Arthur's hands trembled, just like they did during thunderstorms and after nightmares.

"It doesn't make sense," he began, slowly. "But I'm afraid that I'll be like them." Arthur breathed deeply and Eames stroked his fingers across the other man's temple, encouraging. "I think… Like the first few men who slept with me. I was young and I didn't know anything and I wasn't ready and I just… That's not really what I mean but it's the best I can explain it. What if I hurt you and it still felt good?"

"You won't hurt me," Eames interrupted, trying to cut off that fear before it could take shape. "If and when you decide you want to top, you won't hurt me." Arthur scoffed skeptically.

"I wouldn't mean to," Arthur put in, "but I could."

"Darling," he murmured.  "Sweetheart. I'd tell you. I'd tell you if I wasn't ready, if you were going to fast. We'd slow down and start over. I'd tell you," he promised. "Just like you tell me."

"I don't tell you," Arthur said.

"Don't tell me what?" Eames said, hoping one of them had misunderstood.

"I don't tell you," Arthur repeated, frowning and looking up to Eames's concerned gaze. "If it hurts," he clarified. "I'm not supposed to say anything. I don't say anything." Eames shook his head, sitting up properly. He pulled away from their snuggle and looked Arthur dead in the eyes. He'd read once that anxiety was like having ice in your bloodstream and he'd never understood that before he'd fallen for Arthur. Hell, even when they'd first met, he'd felt more worry and concern than he was used to with anyone else.

"Have I been hurting you?" Eames asked. Arthur shrugged. "Do I hurt you?" Eames asked, voice like an order for a response. He hated the way Arthur tensed at his tone but couldn't help himself from the way his heart was twisting at the idea that he was no better than the people who had stolen Arthur's childhood away from under him. That he had done the same.

"Not always," Arthur assured him. Eames did not feel reassured. "It's not like it doesn't feel good after the fact."  Eames cursed and turned away, dragging his hand through his hair, frustrated and disgusted with himself. It was his responsibility to make sure he didn't hurt his partner, and he'd been regularly hurting Arthur and not knowing? What was wrong with him?

"Why would you think you weren't supposed to say anything?" Eames demanded, trying very hard not to yell. He looked over at Arthur, who shrugged nonchalantly.

"It's not a big deal," Arthur said. "It's normal, but I just don't think I could try it with you."

"It isn't normal," Eames began, echoing Arthur's turn of phrase with a touch of sarcasm. "It is not normal. Sex shouldn't hurt."

"Some people get off on being hurt," Arthur interrupted quietly, missing Eames's point. "Some people get off on doing the hurting." Arthur sounded much more familiar with the second type of person.

"I don't," Eames said firmly. "I'm fairly certain you don't get off on pain either. You don't want to hurt me and I definitely don't want to hurt you. Sex doesn't have to be pain and degradation. Why would it be OK for me to hurt you but not vice versa?"

"Because hurting me and hurting you are two very different things," Arthur said simply.

"What are you talking about?" Eames snapped, not understanding how Arthur thought that. How could he even think for a moment that he was worth any less than Eames? Just the idea of that made Eames angry, made him want to punch something, someone, so hard he would break his knuckles. He wished he could fix this somehow but he honestly didn't know how and that made him even angrier, to be helpless. "Are you high?"

"No," Arthur said, scowling at Eames. "There's no need for sarcasm. I'm just saying."

"Saying what?" Eames demanded, aware he was nearly yelling. He knew Arthur hated being yelled at but Eames couldn't quite reel in his indignation at what he'd been allowed to do to Arthur. "That I'm allowed to just treat you like shit?"

"Well, I expect a certain medium of decency," Arthur put in. "Why are you getting angry?"

"Is that what you think of me?" Eames asked. "Jesus, you think I'm no better than all those men who raped you as a child?" Arthur shifted on the couch, moving further away, turning his body to face Eames. He looked as offended as Eames felt.

"I wasn't raped," Arthur fired back stubbornly. "I am not the victim here."

"It wasn't consensual; you were a baby," Eames said. Arthur scoffed at him. "What? Something to share?"

"Fuck off," Arthur snapped, standing, wandering past the coffee table and into the kitchen. He rubbed his forehead angrily. Eames stared after him, waiting. "You don't know, OK?" Arthur said, turning and facing Eames. "You weren't there and it's over now and it's all fine. I'm not some helpless fucking marmot!"

"What the hell is a marmot?" Eames asked, distracted.

"It's like, a rat or something," Arthur said. "The point is that I don't need to be coddled; I'm not a baby. There's nothing wrong with me."

"You think it's normal to be in pain," Eames repeated. "You think I'm allowed to hurt you. That's not… that's not fine."

Arthur looked terribly lost and small, leaning against the counter in the silence. Eames's anger disappeared, leaving just his hurt feelings behind. He sighed heavily. How did this sort of thing come to be? He stood and moved towards Arthur. Arthur let him come close, staring down at Eames's chest and avoiding his eyes. "Arthur, we have to be equals in this. We are equals. Partners." Arthur nodded, humouring  
Eames and he sighed. "Look at me, darling."

"You are not a housewife from the eighteen hundreds. You have the right to vote in this relationship." Arthur looked away, trying to hide his confusion from Eames with little success. "What mirror are you looking in that you don't see that, pet?" He touched Arthur's shoulder but Arthur didn't lean into his touch. "You're my everything," he told Arthur seriously. "I can't go around hurting you,  
OK?" Arthur nodded again and Eames pulled him into a hug.

"I'm sorry I told you to fuck off," Arthur muttered against Eames's shoulder. Eames couldn't help but laugh, melancholy and sweet.

"It's not that big a deal," Eames assured him. Arthur nodded, wrapping his arms around Eames. They stood like that for what seemed like ages, just close and warm and thinking. "We haven't solved anything," Eames said finally, his new knowledge still weighing heavy on his mind. Arthur pulled away, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked very tired.

"Whatever," he said, brushing Eames's concern off. "It's fine."

"It's not," Eames said. Arthur rolled his eyes, moving around the counter and into the kitchen. Eames made to follow him but Arthur pointed a finger at him firmly.

"No," he ordered. "Out of my kitchen. After the mess you made last time. Get back to your side of the counter." Eames heard the teasing tone in his voice and he chuckled, moving back to "his" side of the counter. "Why you were making lasagna I'll never know."

"Lasagna is delicious," Eames replied. Arthur shook his head, amused. He pulled take-out menus out of the junk drawer and passed them to Eames, motioning for him to dig through and choose.

"It's not as though it's mandatory that I top," Arthur said shortly. "You said yourself that I don't have to if I don't want to. And maybe I don't, so maybe I won't. You said I don't have to."

"Even if I had said you had to, you don't have to do anything you don't want," Eames reminded Arthur gently. "It's just that not wanting to and being to afraid to are two different things." Arthur rolled his eyes at him.

"If it were up to you and your fears, I'd still be in Germany hiding away from the big bad world," he pointed out. Eames couldn't admit that it wasn't true. Arthur being on his own, working jobs without him, working jobs at all… It made him anxious. He worried because he adored Arthur and because he was a worrier. "Don't act all high and mighty over here."

"I'm still afraid one of us will get you killed, sure," Eames admitted. "But you didn't want to hide out in Germany; you wanted to do what you wanted. And I don't control you. You know that, right?"

"I know," Arthur said immediately.

"You know that those men, Velvet, all that shit… That doesn't have to control you either," Eames offered quietly after a moment.

"I guess," Arthur said, leaning against the far side of the counter, across the floor space of the kitchen and staring once again at his feet, not meeting Eames's eyes.

"Arthur," he said, trying to make the younger man look at him.

"Shut up, OK?" Arthur ordered, the very picture of exasperation. "This isn't up for discussion. I told you because you deserved to know but the rest is my problem. I've got my own problems but I'm working through them on my own. Maybe I'll get past this one; maybe I won't. Either way, I think I'm doing pretty good, considering what I've been through."

Eames stared at him heavily, trying to decide if the matter was worth pursuing.

Arthur did have a point. He'd been through an incredible amount of shit and he was only eighteen. It was kind of a wonder he functioned at all, let alone as well as he did. He'd seen his parents’ murdered, been forced into a life so far from fitting for a child, kidnapped by Eames, attacked by two strangers and ended up killing one in self defense… He'd shot Nicholas Roy and hadn't even blinked. Arthur had told Eames he'd shot four people that day, but Eames only saw three, and two were wearing vests and he didn't know if Arthur counted that. What had the kid done when Eames wasn't around? What had he seen in the minds of his marks and what did he re-live at night?

"Thai?" Eames asked finally, holding up a yellow flyer. Arthur forced a smile at him.

"Sure," he agreed easily. "It's not like today hasn't had enough spice."


	15. Open Up, Clam

Eames hated working nights. Dreaming already damaged his Circadian rhythm; following one mark or another every other midnight made it damn near impossible to maintain any type of healthy REM sleep. More than that, his job in LA was going to be over soon and he'd have to leave LA until the backlash of this job faded, if then. Arthur would be working some job Lydia had hooked him up with in Belgium. Soon, he'd be in Charleroi under some extractor who was new to the game and an architect whose name Eames could never remember. Some weasel of a guy who was in the business for the money and not the raw creation and power that came with dreamsharing.

He yawned, the taxi lurching to a stop in front of Arthur's apartment building. Eames stared at the building for a moment before his tired mind registered the fact they'd arrived. He jerked, reaching for his money.

"Sorry, how much?" he asked, voice hoarse from living off of coffee and cigarettes and no sleep. The cabbie gave him an annoyed look and Eames gathered that he had asked more than once. He paid  and left a tip and wandered into the stairwell of the building. He couldn't wait to curl up next to Arthur. Today was Saturday and Arthur would let him sleep in and greet him in the early afternoon with wake-up sex, or lunch in bed, or some delicious combination of the two. He smiled as he unlocked the door. It would suck to have to go home to an empty apartment now.

He tossed his keys into the little glass bowl, peeling off his jacket with a sigh. He was tired. He'd been awake since six AM day before yesterday. He'd been chasing people around LA and following people for that long made it really hard to not get noticed while being close enough he could notice everything. The apartment was warmer than the cool LA night, a light rain probably in store for tomorrow.

"Don't," someone whispered. "No. Please, stop." Eames froze, recognizing Arthur's voice but not that fearful tone. Arthur wasn't the type to show his fear. His hand went to his gun, pulling it from his holster and hoping his loud keys hadn't let whoever was terrorizing Arthur know he'd stumbled home. He crept into the main room, scanning it for evidence of who was there. He kept his gun at the ready, glancing at the empty couch, kitchen and the open door to the bathroom, faint glow of the night-light revealing the porcelain-lined room to be empty. Arthur whimpered; that was the only way to describe the sound.

"I said no—stop," Arthur begged from the bedroom. Eames hurried to the door in four silent strides, peering around the half-closed door. Arthur was alone, orange light of the streetlights and neon outside let him see the empty room. His shoulders dropped their tension, no longer ready to fire but he didn't feel anymore at ease. "No," Arthur said again, twisting his head against the mattress, pillows pushed onto Eames's side like they always were. Eames lowered his gun, checking the safety before laying it on the dresser. He moved around the bed to Arthur's side, sitting on the edge of the bed as Arthur tossed and turned, fighting his demons alone.

His face was beaded with sweat, his hair a complete mess as he tried to pull away from some memory of a monster, moaning in a way Eames knew by the sight of Arthur to be one of fear, not of pleasure, not the one he adored. He'd always been close enough to Arthur to wake him when the nightmares started, as far as he knew, but he'd never seen one like this, one this bad. Arthur kicked, Eames's weight holding down the covers and panicking the smaller man. Eames shifted off the covers immediately but the damage was done; Arthur's breath caught and he cried out against some phantom pain. "No, no, no," he protested, trying to twist away as the weight on the sheets lifted. They tangled about his legs and he trembled, brows knit together. Eames touched his shoulder, usually enough to rouse him, as he leaned over the bed and watched Arthur's red, flushed face. Arthur shivered but didn't respond like he usually did; he didn't jerk awake and into Eames's waiting, soothing arms.

"Arthur, sweetheart," he called softly, hoping his boyfriend wouldn't wake with the violent jerk and near-tears he did on some nights. "Come on now; wake up." Arthur gasped, face tight, prepared for a blow. "Darling, please. Wake up now." He touched Arthur's other shoulder and he flinched in his sleep.

He shook Arthur's shoulders lightly with both hands and Arthur turned his head away, hands smacking at Eames's arms with surprising strength; Eames forgot how wilful even a sleeping Arthur could be. It had been a long time since Arthur didn't wake easily. Eames shook him again and Arthur struck out, letting out almost a sob. He hit Eames's jaw with bruising force, twisting away, and Eames's tight grip on his slender shoulders must have hurt because Arthur winced. He pulled away, afraid Arthur would hurt himself under his restraints. Eames hated this, hated the evidence of Arthur's life _Before_ , hated the fact there was a Before, hated that he couldn't seem to fix it, hated that nothing he did was enough, hated that these dreams wouldn't stop, after nearly two years of trying, hated that he didn't even seem any closer to knowing than he had been then.

"Stop, please, I don't want this," Arthur pleaded. He made a tiny, pained sound and bit his lip.

"Wake up!" Eames ordered, frightened even if he wasn't the one trapped in Arthur's head. His eyes flew open and Eames sighed a breath of relief. "Are you all right?" he asked softly, reaching out to stroke Arthur's sweaty bangs from his forehead, pebbled with sweat that felt cold against his skin. Arthur gasped at his touch, his eyes tracking some movement Eames didn't see. "Arthur!" he cried, horrified that the other wasn't actually awake. Jesus, usually Arthur slept better when using PASIV regularly. Eames had never seen him like this. "Arthur!" He put a knee on the bed, leaning over his small body, cupping his face gently and trying to still his desperate jerking before Arthur pulled something. "Wake up!" he ordered again. He held tight to the terrified little face staring through him into some horrible reality, some horrible dream.

Arthur's breath stuttered as his hands grabbed at Eames's wrist, clawing, unaware. He jerked back with a gasp of his own, cursing as he pressed a hand to the already-bleeding scrapes on his right arm, ignoring the stinging white lines on his left. Arthur arched, making little, terrifying, high-pitched gasping noises as his arms jerked against nothing, dark eyes wide and wild. Eames realized Arthur wasn't breathing; he was holding his breath, reliving something Eames didn't know he'd been through. Jesus Christ, he was being strangled by his subconscious in a natural fucking dream.

"Arthur!" he shouted, cupping his neck again, supporting him, as Arthur arched to almost a dangerous angle, struggling against token restriction for breath. "Breathe, you fucking moron. There's nothing there, breathe! Wake up!" Arthur's hands grabbed his, twisting and shaking. His eyelids flickered open and closed fast and Eames almost cried, almost sobbed, anything to make this stop. He held his dreaming partner, watching him tortured, wondering where in the desolate timeline this memory fit in, what his poor boyfriend had been through, what had happened before Eames knew him, before Eames could protect him.

 "Eames, stop," he choked out past his closing throat, voice broken and hoarse and that scared Eames more than anything, terrified him, tightening around his chest until he felt like he was the one not breathing, making his head spin and his thoughts swim; _is Arthur really afraid of me?_ He didn't know what else to do; Arthur needed to be awake, needed to wake up, need to fall back into his safe, careful reality, and Eames couldn't tilt a chair to kick him this time, didn't have a musical cue or a timer. He didn't know what to do. Panicking, he hauled off and slapped Arthur, hard.

The man jerked and collapsed from his arch into the mattress, gasping. Arthur kicked, pushing Eames off him with the strength he hid in his lithe form only when conscious and Eames lost his precarious balance, smashing the side of his head on the floor with a crack. He heard Arthur's rough breathing, dragging in buckets of air at a shallow, irregular pace. He pulled himself up in record time, ignoring the unhappy throb of his head. Arthur had thrown the covers off, sitting and awake, really awake, trying desperately to breathe through panic and adrenaline. He stared at Eames, actually seeing him, lungs stuttering. Eames slipped in behind him, pulling Arthur's damp, clammy back against his chest. He could feel Arthur's racing heartbeat through his shirt.

"Feel me breathing with you," he ordered, holding Arthur tight. Arthur grabbed at the strong arms wrapped around his heaving chest, not pulling them off or clawing, just holding Eames as tightly as he was being held. "Feel me breathing. Breathe with me now, darling, breathe."

He breathed deep in the middle of his chest, pressing his steady diaphragm against Arthur's back. Arthur pulled in a shallow inhale and held it, waiting for Eames to exhale to release it in just as anxious a huff. "That's it," Eames murmured encouragingly. "In and out; you're OK. You're all right. It's over. I've got you; you're safe." Eames had no idea how long they stayed like that, holding each other tightly and breathing. Eames continued whispering encouragement and breathing with him as Arthur's breath slowly (slowly, slowly, slowly) levelled and evened. "You're OK," Eames said again, not sure who he was saying it for anymore. He buried his head in Arthur's clammy neck, pulse heavy against his stubbly cheek, Arthur's usual, crisp scent barely there.

"I'm OK," Arthur agreed after a long while. He was pale in the streetlight, no moon filtering down on LA. Eames ran a hand through Arthur's hair; this time Arthur didn't flinch. Awake.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Eames asked. He'd been exhausted when he'd come in but he never felt more awake than he did right now, a still-trembling Arthur in front of him. "I'd never seen you that bad before. I mean, fuck, Arthur. You weren't breathing. What if I wasn't here? You weren't… Oh, fuck." Eames kissed his neck, their voices quiet against his own racing, terrified heart.

"I haven't had that dream in a long time," Arthur admitted softly, hands gentle on Eames's knees, sitting between the forger's strong thighs. "I had it a lot while you were in Australia."

"You weren't _breathing_ ," Eames repeated, his mind playing arching, gasping, suffocating Arthur on loop for him, as though he had a chance of ever, ever forgetting.

"I was trying to," Arthur said, sounding as if he was also trying to defend himself from an accusation. "I… One of my first," he said by way of explanation. Eames shuddered, arms tight around Arthur as if he could squeeze out the past. "One of my regulars, after. I got used to it, but the first time… I didn't know what he was doing."

"He strangled you?" Eames guessed, horrified. Arthur must've been no more than fourteen. Eames knew the other spent about a year on the streets before Velvet took him up. He'd seen the Senator's projection of Arthur. He could only imagine how small and childlike and naïve Arthur must have looked a whole year before Eames had seen a memory of him. He couldn't imagine one of your first times, at that age, at that point, no less, to be something so extreme with a stranger, with someone you couldn't trust to let up before you died.

Arthur burrowed close into Eames, cold and damp and Eames pulled him against his chest, trying to be what Arthur needed. "I couldn't get him off," Arthur slipped out, almost inaudible. He clung to Eames tightly, almost too tightly; long fingers dug sharply into muscles. "I couldn't get him off and I couldn't breathe and… I got used to it, but I didn't know. That first time, I thought I was dying. In my dream, I do."

"You said my name, at the end," Eames admitted after a pause. "You told me to stop. Did I—Did you dream that I—" he corrected, but Arthur cut him off.

"I told you to stop _him_ ," Arthur corrected firmly. Arthur's breathing now, he reminded himself. You're all right. "Tonight, I dreamed it was like February—" In Mombassa, when Arthur was attacked. Eames remembered that night so clearly, tinged with the same terror he'd felt tonight "—and you came before it was too late." Something small in Eames broke then. He breathed deeply, trying to hold in tears because men don't cry. In the darkest corner of Arthur's mind, after nearly two years of trying, some part of him lingered, trying to protect and save Arthur from the impossible, from the ugly and the awful and the bad. That, above all else, calmed his racing pulse.  
   
"I'm sorry," Arthur said after a few moments. Eames kissed his ear gently.

"For what, love?" he asked.

"For scaring you, for everything you put up with," Arthur replied easily, calm and pliant in Eames's arms.

"You don't need to be sorry and it's hardly as if you don't put up with a lot from me," he said dissuasively. "You always have to do the cooking, you make the coffee in the mornings about ninety-five percent of the time and I know my mess drives you barmy. I have nightmares too sometimes."

"Eames, I don't just have nightmares; I have a pathological fucking dementia," Arthur snapped, his body tensing in that way it did when he wanted to pull away but knew Eames wouldn't let him. "I'm turning nineteen in eight days and it's rare I sleep through the night."

"You're getting better," Eames promised him. "Maybe tonight's the exception but most days you do well." Arthur sighed.

"I know that. But the exceptions seem to make up a secondary, not outliers."

*

Arthur woke warm from a dreamless sleep. Eames was snoring quietly, tossed across Arthur's chest like he usually was. Arthur smiled softly at his sleeping face, calm in a way he hadn't been last night. He felt kind of guilty that Eames had come home to his nightmare.  He could only imagine how excited Eames must have been to be coming home after working for two days straight only to have it ruined by Arthur and his nightmares. He wondered how pathetic he'd looked, trapped in his own natural dream.

The late morning light was cool against his face, dancing across Eames's tired features. He wondered what Eames was dreaming about, or if he was still able to dream at all. Perhaps the saying would prove true (you don't know what you've got till it's gone), but he couldn't wait to stop dreaming naturally, couldn’t wait until the Somnacin affected him enough that he could sleep always free of the disturbance and terror of his memory.

Eames snuffled and shifted, twisting his head tiredly to peer at Arthur, squinting against the light of day. His greyish eyes held only tiredness and adoration, no trace of the pity or disgust Arthur had feared would be there. He smiled down at the other man, who groaned in response, unhappy to be awake. He buried his face in Arthur's chest, stubble rough on Arthur's Manchester jersey. Arthur ran a lazy hand along Eames's arm and frowned when he found fresh, new clots.

"Did I do that?" he asked, brushing over the scratches with his long fingers. Eames blinked and pulled his arm under the covers, away from Arthur's worried gaze in a manner meant to look like casual stretching. Arthur quirked a brow, unimpressed.

"You were asleep," Eames said, brushing it off. "You didn't know it was just me. You didn't know I wasn't going to hurt you in a way worse than a scratch. I'm glad you were trying to defend yourself, in a way."

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, nonetheless. "That must've hurt." Eames shrugged, resting his chin on Arthur's sternum. Arthur brushed his fingers over Eames's forehead and the forger sighed happily, closing his eyes. "Do you have today off?" Arthur asked. Eames smiled. "Oh, and what's your plan for the day then?"

"I plan to eat your delicious food, ravish you, then have a nap. Repeat. Maybe not in that order, since I've got you right here," Eames chucked, slipping one hand up under Arthur's sleep shirt, hand warm and dry against Arthur's belly. He brushed his fingers through Eames's tousled hair, scraping his nails along his scalp.

"The literary definitions of ravish are conflicting," Arthur said. Eames hummed, questioning. "It means to fill with intense delight—"

" _Intense_ delight?" Eames echoed, laughing grey eyes looking up at Arthur. He shrugged.

"Word for word from the dictionary," he offered. Eames crawled up, kissing him good morning and despite morning breath, Arthur granted him entrance into his mouth, cupping Eames's face with a hand. Eames's strong arms braced his weight over Arthur, leaving just enough on the younger man to make him aware of the weight without being crushed.

"You're wonderful when you're nerdy. And what's the other, hm?" Eames asked, kissing down Arthur's neck, lips hot and stubble leaving cool, tingling nerves on Arthur's skin. "That sounds fairly standard, that definition there. _Intense_ delight qualifies as being ravished in my books."

 "The other," he began before being distracted by Eames's hands and lips and tongue… "Eames," he moaned instead. Eames kissed him again, very much awake now and no longer quite so unhappy about the morning. 


	16. Phone Tag

"He wasn't here," Dom muttered to her as she carried in the last of the plates. Mal frowned at him— _he's a private person, that's all_ —and passed him the small pile of porcelain. He accepted the stack and turned to the garbage can; he scraped the plates free of debris before sliding them into the new dishwasher. Mal hummed for him to continue and filled up her wine glass with more white Bordeaux. Mal had grown up not too far from Bordeaux and she still, after nearly five years in the States with him, carried every mannerism of a proper French wife. 

"He should have brought him," Dom repeated and Mal shrugged again, picking up her wine glass and sipping the liquid. She peered through the glass at the wine and sniffed huffily.

"The vintage wasn't as good as I anticipated," she said instead and he nodded. "I thought Arthur would bring his boyfriend too, _minou_."

"I want to meet this kid," Dom muttered, placing the last of the plates in the sleet, silver machine buried in the kitchen island. He flicked the on switch as he closed the dishwasher, watching his wife fill up his wine glass for him. The stems were long and regal, the goblet sheer and deceptively strong.

"I worry that we haven't," Mal agreed. He clinked his wine glass against hers over the narrow island and she smiled that soft, adoring smile. Her dark eyes sparkled with the thrill of being young and in love, having a family and a purpose, the real and unreal. "But he seems content. At least we can say the other man isn’t hurting him. I worry he can't protect himself because he doesn't seem to know if someone's being unfair." Dom sighed, drinking again. Mal felt he was too hard on Arthur sometimes but if the kid could take it, Dom didn't see the issue with expecting a lot. He was still a kid but he'd done so many jobs with them and even a few on his own when Mal found a consult that she thought he'd be fit for. He was good at what he did and Dom didn't want to baby him.

"He was thrilled we even knew he was turning nineteen," Dom murmured. Mal nodded, the moonlight pouring in the big windows. "I still think we should have someone put out feelers to find out who he used to be—"

"No," Mal said firmly, tapping an elegant finger against the bowl of the wine glass. The pale wine quivered beneath her touch, her wedding ring clinking slightly. "He is a boy; we won't delve into his privacy like that, to betray him like that." Dom sighed, shaking his head. "I know you're frustrated."

"He won't tell us anything," Dom pointed out gently. Mal glared sharply and Dom was momentarily thankful he wasn't on her bad side, clever as she was and ruthless as she could be. "I think it's time for us to know."

"He's going to Belgium to work the Charleroi job with Williams and Nash," Mal told him. Dom nodded and felt himself become mesmerized by his wife, her beauty.

"I remember you and I lying side by side, staring at the sky. It was all so real. Everything else fell away and, for a moment, we'd created the world," he told her, the moment appearing in his mind's eye and Arthur, work, the University, all of it became white noise to the flame of their success.

"I remember the moment when you took me by the hand," Mal finished, "smiled at me and said, _let's never wake up_. I remember the second level, Dom. I'm just glad we managed it while Arthur was here to help with Phillipa when we were down for a long while."

"We trust Arthur with Phillipa and he hasn't told us his last name," Dom put in, his eyes drawn from Mal's radiance to the night outside. It looked unusually cool for LA, even in the suburbs, with a slight mist coating the air. Mal let her empty glass clink on the counter and he looked back at her. She rounded the counter and kissed his cheek with a chaste, powerful air.

"Come with me," she ordered, taking his hand. "It's late. We'll be on our own with Phillipa tomorrow. Let's enjoy our silence before it disappears."

*

 _"Uh, shit. I think I hit two. Hello? Is this your answering machine? I didn't know these existed for cell phones. I'm no longer in Los Angeles, I wrapped the job and you know. The success outweighs the messy getaway. I dunno if you get American news were you are, but the car chase wasn't me, that was our pointman, the genius that he is. I got him out of jail and he's jumped bail. It's all fine now, but it's annoying nonetheless. I could have used that fake cash to buy something pointless, like a remote control helicopter toy. I saw one. I want one. Christmas. And working with you has spoiled me, sweet. I think I used mostly your research on this job and you didn't even get paid. This point was a bit of a turd. Oh, sorry, ma'am. I didn't realise your child was hearing. Why wouldn't I assume it was deaf? Do you have something against deaf children? It's not a disability; I take offense to that. Well, I agree, deaf children shouldn't be taught curse words either. I'll keep it down, thank you. Anyway, darling, I think I'm going to be headed—_ beep."  
 _  
"It's me again. There's a time limit on your answering machine apparently. I was saying that I think it's too cold and I'm not doing a winter in Belgium because that's horrible and rainy so you can meet me back home, yeah? When you finish up. If you don't, uh, head back to LA. Right away. Last I heard they were in DC for Thanksgiving anyway and I thought Thanksgiving was in October? So you should come to me. I won't even make you cook. I just miss you, duckie. I need you here for a while. Call me, yeah?_ Beep."

Arthur received a raised eyebrow from Cobb as he grinned at his phone when Eames called him _duckie_. Something about the nickname was unbearably funny to him. If he was honest, he probably had a sappy smile the whole time he listened to his messages, but the _duckie_ turned it to a full out grin.

"Who was that?" Cobb asked dryly, turning his small, brass Eiffel Tower absently between two fingers.

Arthur shrugged, saying, "Just some voicemail." Cobb squinted at him and Arthur tucked his phone back into his suit jacket. "Honest. Do we have anything on for the next few weeks?"

"Do you have family stuff to take care of?" Cobb guessed. "It's Thanksgiving soon, after all."

"My family… I'm Canadian, so Thanksgiving has already happened," Arthur told him. Cobb nodded sadly, not really listening.

"Mal's French so she thinks the entire thing is stupid," he confessed. "Just an excuse for me to get together with my redneck family and shoot things."

"Redneck?" Arthur echoed. "I thought you're originally from New York?"

"Yeah, upstate," Cobb agreed. "But Mal thinks my family lacks a certain air of class. We do hunt and wear obnoxious amounts of camouflage. Dreaming has allowed me to fit in enough practice time to be a better shot than my dad, in his old age. I'll be in LA for a while then we'll fly up."

"So you're on your way home to Mal, then?" Arthur said. "How's Pippa?"

"Phillipa's doing well, apparently," Cobb replied. "She's getting big back home with Mommy."

"Sixth months old," Arthur filled in. Cobb grinned proudly.

"Where will you be in the next month?"

"I'll go see my boyfriend," Arthur said vaguely, looking out the window of the airport. The tarmac was grey and wet, the pavement shining with the orange lights of the planes and runways, the sky a proper navy blue rare in Belgium. Cobb smiled softly, thumb twisting his wedding ring upon his hand absently. 

"I don't know how you do it," Cobb said. "I've been in Europe fourteen days and it feels like I left part of myself back in LA, left _myself_ in LA. I don't know how you manage to be on the other side of the world all the time. I don't think I'd make it very far without Mal by my side." Arthur glanced over at Cobb, just truly noticing shadows under his blue eyes and the stress that wracked his frame. Arthur had figured it had to do with the military meetings he'd been in at the UN but maybe it was really chalked up to being away from the woman he shared his life with. The shadows were heavier than mere shaded skin; they housed raw emotion that Arthur didn't think could be too easily contained.

"You manage," Arthur offered after a moment. "Sometimes it's hard, but you get by. I think about him every day. Sometimes I just want to… fall asleep and magically wake up to him."

"Do you ever use dreams to do that?" Cobb asked curiously. Arthur shook his head.

"No, that would be far too dangerous," Arthur told him easily. "To allow a projection of someone, anyone, to become something you depend on? That would become a physiological addiction to your idealized version of someone, combined with the most concentrated forms of unresolved issues and fears about that relationship, about any relationship…" He shivered, imagining the way a lucid projection of Eames could hurt him when his mind turned on itself during training with Cobb. "The dream is already too real; I don't need to give it ammunition."

"I think it could work as a therapy thing," Cobb said dimly, wheels in his mind already turning, churning loud enough to ring and grind in Arthur's ears. "To build a prison, a safe box in your very subconscious to keep certain memories from escaping. Moments that you'd always wanted to change, you can. Do you have something that haunts you? We could—"

"Trauma isn't something that should be fixed by further forcing your mind," Arthur interrupted. "I don't even think that would work. I'm skeptical about the whole therapy thing traditionally. The experimental versions just sound like bad ideas." The PA system announced, again, that his flight was delayed due to a storm in Montreal but was expected within the hour.

Cobb checked his own watch, replying, "It's not your mind; it's just a projection of the memory."

"I thought you said never to use memory, in any case," Arthur said, frowning as he considered the idea of locking certain bedrooms and apartments and moments away to never be heard of again. Because burying issues without the reality of dreams worked so well, he reminded himself. "How would you build the safe box without replicating the memory to its final detail?" Cobb shrugged, not addressing the contradiction as he scooped up his duffle bag. "You're off, then?"

"Yeah, I've got to get to the other side of the airport," he said, standing. "I'll send your love to the girls, yeah?"

"Oh!" Arthur said, standing and pulling a small, stuffed giraffe out of his jacket pocket. The plush animal's legs splayed in his palm, neck straight and proud, beaded eyes smiling in their stitches. "I, uh." Suddenly he felt incredibly stupid, but Cobb gave him a curious squint, his version of Mal's encouraging smiles. "I had one when I was little, just like this. I saw it and I wondered if you'd give it to Phillipa for me."

Cobb plucked the giraffe from Arthur's hand. "Phillipa's too young to name it," he pointed out. "What shall it be called?"

"Mine was named Jiffy," Arthur admitted. Cobb quirked a questioning brow. "I couldn't say giraffe. That's a hard word for a small child."

"Clearly. Well, Jiffy, it shall be," he declared. "Thanks." With a clap on the shoulder and a giraffe in his pocket, Dom Cobb wandered out of Arthur's life again but only for a time.

*

Eames didn't leave the radio on, that he is sure of. The hallway lets him creep to his apartment in silence, pulling out his gun as he checks for signs of a break-in. There aren't any, which just makes him certain that whoever broke into his apartment had done so with the subtly of a professional and there was a possibility it'd be an even fight, if it came down to it. The door was also still locked, which was bizarre. He used his key and as he opened the door he realised he could smell the warm, drifting scent of fresh bread.

And he also realised Arthur was in his sitting room, in corduroys and a surprisingly tacky tee shirt that declared J'M PARIS, looking over at the noise of the door being pushed open, unimpressed with the sight of Eames, ready to shoot, gun trained on the man in his apartment. He was standing on the coffee table, pockets full of screwdrivers and odd things, apparently installing a light fixture, from the look of it.

"Jesus, fuck," Eames said, clicking the safety back on as he lowered his gun and his heart rate. "I almost shot you."

"Yes," Arthur agreed, not moving from his task. Eames nodded; his mind was not quite on the _Arthur is in your apartment_ page yet. Eames shoved his gun back into his holster before hanging it and his jacket up. Arthur's eyes were heavy on his movements.

"You broke into my apartment," Eames continued.

 "Yes," Arthur conceded easily, still not straying his attention from his work.

"How do you know where I live?" he asked. "I said Mombasa in general and you found the right apartment."

"I'm very good," Arthur replied dryly. "And you favour this type of building." Eames scratched his chin, considering.

"I wasn't expecting to find an Arthur in my apartment," Eames admitted, finding himself peering up at the mess of wires Arthur was fitting into a neat hole in the ceiling. "What are you doing?"

"The lights didn't work," he said. "So I fixed them." He lowered his arms and pointed at the light switch on the wall. Eames crossed to it obediently and flipped it. The lights flickered and then glowed happily. "Success. How are you?"

"I'm much better now that my lights work," Eames quipped as Arthur hopped off the table. Eames left the lights on as he moved over to the unexpected guest in his living room. "This is the nicest break-in I've ever had."

"I should think so," Arthur said dimly as Eames placed his hand in the middle of Arthur's back, cool even in the heat of Africa. "I missed you," Arthur told him, letting Eames kiss him soundly. "I fixed our light."

"Our light?" Eames echoed.

"Well, this is my home," Arthur said softly, arms around Eames's neck, hands tangling in his short hair, gentle against his scalp. "You're my home."

"I don't want you to go again," Eames said after a moment, holding Arthur close, letting himself just hold him.

"I know," Arthur breathed, letting Eames creep his big, warm hands up under Arthur's shirt and across his narrow back. "I know." He pulled Eames close again, kissing him gently, slow and sweet. "I'm here now. I'm not leaving, not right now."


	17. Dangerous December

"We've been together for two years," Eames said one night, Arthur cuddled against him. He traced his fingers along the edges of the now-familiar scars covering Arthur's body.

"Have we now?" Arthur asked dimly, sleepy and only half listening. Eames smiled. He didn't know how he'd managed to worm his way into Arthur's trust but he had. He remembered when Arthur would let him touch and feel, slightly on edge and nervous. He remembered the nervousness slowly fade away, slowly fading to let him see the real Arthur. The Arthur who let him hold him on warm, Mombassa nights like this and Eames couldn't help but adore him for it. His gaze lifted from Arthur's beautiful face and fell on the dresser, on the remote control helicopter he'd found on his chair at the kitchen table on Christmas. Arthur had forgotten to buy batteries but Eames honestly knew it was the thought that counted and, boy, did it count. Even if they weren't really big on doing real Christmases with the tree and everything, Eames had come home with a few small gifts and Arthur had treated him to dinner and the remote helicopter he'd mentioned mostly as a joke months ago.

"Well, two years on the thirty first," he admitted. He almost giggled (a manly giggle) at the sensation of Arthur inadvertently fluttering his eyelashes against his chest, the soft, tingly touches almost erotic.

"No, we met in November," Arthur pointed out.

"Doesn't count," Eames said. "We had our first date on December thirty first." Arthur hummed his agreement, cool and soft against Eames's broad torso. "It's been on and off ever since we've been working apart," he continued, carding one hand through Arthur's dark, sweat-sticky hair. "I wanna make it just an on thing. No more putting it on the back burner." Arthur stiffened. "Sweetheart?" Eames questioned. Arthur looked up at him, eyes dark and urgent. "What is it, love?"

"We can't do that," Arthur told him, pulling away enough to meet his gaze properly. He braced his lithe frame on his elbows, sheets falling and pooling about his waist.

"Why not?" Eames asked, tangling his fingers in Arthur's hair once again. The teen looked away, letting Eames stroke him gently.

"It's too dangerous."

"You're the one who told me about a hundred times that the potential of danger isn't a good enough reason to not do something," Eames noted huffily. Arthur scowled at him, angry and embarrassed all at once.

"I didn't know then," he said bizarrely. Eames frowned confusedly and Arthur shrugged best he could propped on his elbows. "I didn't know how dangerous it could be. Not even just if one of us gets the other killed."

"What other way could this possibly be dangerous, pet?" Eames demanded, forcing a light smile. "You drive me barmy sometimes but I'm not in any danger of losing my marbles when we're together."

"But you could," Arthur said. He drew Eames's hand out of his hair and kissed his wrist lightly, dropping it on the bed. "You could lose yourself in the relationship. I could lose myself."

"Thousands of people come home to their husbands and wives every night and maintain a sense of self," Eames said. "We're both smart. I'm not saying we'd have to be together every moment of the day, but I don't want to have you in Toronto or something while I'm in Mombassa or London. I'm trying to make us a family, here."

"And I appreciate that," Arthur assured him. "But if… It's just not a good idea." Eames scowled, sitting up in the bed. "I'm sorry," Arthur said, his voice small against Eames's obvious annoyance.

"Don't apologize for having opinions," Eames snapped. "If you do that, you've already lost your sense of self." He flung the covers off and stood, intending to take a walk about the apartment for a while. _You didn't really expect that Arthur would say yes to this proposal, did you?_ his mind asked him mockingly. He felt incredibly frustrated, a hot prickling of anger boiling under his collarbones and making his fingers shake.

"Eames!" Arthur admonished. "Come on. Don't leave." He scoffed.

"Why not?" he asked. "That's all you're planning to do. You'll leave again and I'll be on my fucking own." He paused in the doorway and Arthur was frowning at him, silent. Eames bristled like a nettle. "I don't understand why you're afraid of loving me!"

"I'm afraid of loving you?" Arthur fired back, sitting up and lowering his feet to the ground, to earth, to reality. "I'm not afraid of loving you; I'm afraid of losing you. I'm not afraid to admit it either. You can't even say that you love me."

"I've said it," Eames corrected. Arthur's fingers tensed on the sheets; he pursed his lips. "What?"

"You've said it when you're drunk," Arthur pointed out angrily, folding his arms over his chest to hide his nervous hands, to hide his tells from Eames's trained eye. "And if you mean everything you say when you're drunk, then we really have some problems."

"I'm a perfectly delightful drunk," Eames said huffily. Arthur shook his head firmly.

"No, you are not," he corrected. "You say things sometimes. You do things sometimes. I just… I love you, but I can't deal with it if the things you say drunk are always the truth."

"You can't deal with the things I say sober," Eames muttered, moving away. Arthur stood and followed him fervently, indignant.

"What can I not deal with?" he demanded, grabbing Eames's elbow and stopping him from storming into the kitchen. "Eames."

"Well, just now!" Eames yelled, pulling himself free and gesturing vaguely, angrily, at the bedroom and his offer of permanence. "I asked you to stay and you said no. You're too afraid. You couldn't deal!"

"You couldn't deal for ages after I got hurt in February," Arthur fired back. Eames nodded.

"Exactly. I know what it feels like, I've been there. But I learned, baby," he said, touching Arthur's shoulders. Arthur pushed his hands off of him, stepping back and away.

"Don't call me baby," he said sharply.

"That's off-limits, I forgot. That and any semblance of a family," Eames said, feeling too hot all over and needing to cool down before he blew and released every hurtful thing he could say but didn't want to. "Any semblance of permanence, of anything real." He left Arthur, wanting space and not knowing why, unable to explain why he was getting so angry. He hated feeling like this, feeling inferior and inadequate in a relationship that meant the world to him.

"I know what's real!" Arthur yelled after him. "Don't you accuse me of not knowing that what we have is real. I fucking know that. I know that the threat is real too, Eames! I _can't_ watch you get hurt again!"

"And being away from me is going to make it easier when I get hurt, when I get killed?" Eames demanded. "That's illogical. All it does is waste our time together."

"We have our whole lives, Eames," Arthur pointed out. "We're young. We've got forever to be together, but not right now."

"I'm old already, Arthur!" Eames retorted. "I'm thirty one. You're not even twenty! When I'm in my forties, you'll be twenty something still! I'll be dead and you'll be, like, fifty!"

"How old do you plan to be when you die?" Arthur demanded.

"I don't know. Old. Eighty three."

"OK, well, that's not how math works," Arthur said, his voice reeking of condescension. Eames tried to breathe, to rein himself in and keep his bubbling feelings from exploding.

"I just don't understand why you're saying no," Eames admitted. "Why?"

"I've got reasons…" Arthur trailed off and Eames scowled.

"What? The Cobbs? The people who adore you but I've never met?" Eames accused.

"You've met Cobb," Arthur said stubbornly. "He knows who you are."

"Not as your boyfriend, I haven't met him," Eames snapped. "I know they want to meet me but instead I'm some fucking secret. It's like you're ashamed of me!"

"I have never claimed that I'm ashamed of you!" Arthur yelled right back. "I wouldn't say that! I don't feel that, Eames!"

"No," Eames jeered. "No, of course not. You know better than that. You always know better, except when you don't. Arthur, you'd still be a whore if you hadn't met me!" Arthur's entire body tensed; he looked as if he'd just been slapped. He exhaled shaky and hard, glaring at Eames sharply. He had to forcibly pull himself back together.

"That's not fair," Arthur said finally, voice harsh and low. He was standing dangerously close to Eames and he wondered, absently in some foreign, stupid part of his mind, if maybe he should take a step back. Arthur's hands were tense and shaky. "That's not fair to me at all."

"My apologies," Eames offered sarcastically. "Of course. I can't bring up the past. It's another thing you can't deal with. I should've known better, floating here in my sea of wrong."

"You're being unreasonable!" Arthur shouted, hiding his hurt behind dark anger and coffee-swirl eyes. Eames barely noted it because he was tense and hurt as well.

"Because you're always so fucking sane, aren't you!" Eames screamed, angry and furious and he reached out and shoved. Arthur fell, taken by surprise, hard. He stayed on the ground, legs splayed in front of him, arms covering his head out of reflex. Eames's anger evaporated with Arthur afraid at his feet.

"I'm sorry," Arthur murmured, voice tiny and soft. "I shouldn't have."

"Fuck," Eames whispered. Arthur peered up through his arms, young and delicate and, fuck, Eames had hit him. He'd hit Arthur.

 And suddenly he was in a casino, drinking at a blackjack table, mindlessly counting cards. He didn't remember leaving the apartment, but he somehow remembered shoes, a shirt. He wondered how long Arthur cowered, how long he'd been trained to cower. He wondered if he'd had anything to do with the training. Maybe drinking wasn't the best way to deal with this, but he couldn't figure out any other way.

*

"Non, non, tu ne peux pas. Peux pas. Désolé," Arthur said, pulling his phone away from Phillipa. She frowned at Arthur, her dark eyes peeping out underneath her baby blonde fringe. "What? What do you want?" Phillipa squealed at him and Arthur nodded encouragingly. She reached out for her giraffe instead of his phone, just beyond her reach. He handed her the toy easily. She stuck Jiffy's nose in her mouth and grinned her toothless grin. "See, much better than eating my cell phone." Phillipa reached out for his hand and he let her grab his fingers with her slobbery ones.

"Oh, you're just sticky and gross," he told her, his tone playful and gentle. She squealed again, throwing the giraffe at him. He gasped when it hit him and she laughed, clapping. "Easily amused, huh, Pippa? What's my name?" He tapped his chest.

"Aw-er," she replied, reaching out for him again.

"Yeah, Arthur, that's right," he cooed, touching her hands with his. "It's a hard name, I know. Phillipa's hard to say, too, isn't it." She gurgled and pulled one of her socks off. She offered it to him kindly. "No, thanks. That's yours." She dropped it, and picked it back up between her thumb and index, fascinated by her newly-developed motor skills.

His attention was drawn from Phillipa to his buzzing phone. He looked at it, vibrating at his elbow on the delicate carpet of the Cobbs' playroom.

E calling…

"Pippa, I've gotta take this," he told her. She reached for Jiffy. He held it just beyond her, making her stretch for it. "Good girl!" he rewarded, watching her flop onto her back and gnaw on her giraffe's poor nose.

"Hey, babe," he said brightly, placing his phone to his ear. This was the first time Eames had contacted him since their last fight. Arthur had waited in the Mombasa apartment for a week, hoping Eames would come back. He'd waited until he'd received a call from Cobb asking him to come help with research on newer compounds and dream designs. Mombasa was lonely and hot without Eames, and he'd left after days of trying to get a hold of him to tell him it was all OK, to be told the same in return. "You all right?"

"Hey," Eames said, sounding cautious. "I'm… Yeah."

"It's been a while," Arthur said gently. He could hear Eames's breathing, could hear the sound of cars and motorbikes zooming by at a distance.

"Yeah," Eames agreed dimly. His cautious tone didn't fade and Arthur didn't really know how to assuage him. "How are you?" He hauled himself off his stomach as Phillipa flopped onto her hands and knees, crawling about with Jiffy's leg clutched in a tiny fist. The door to the sitting room was shut and there was a safety gate at the bottom of the stairs. Realistically, she wasn't going anywhere, but Arthur watched her like a hawk nonetheless.  
   
 "I'm much better now that you're talking to me again," he said. "I worried." Eames's line crackled for a moment with static and Arthur wondered where he was in the world.

"Why?" Eames said after a while.

"Why what?" Phillipa sat by her blocks only a few feet from Arthur and pushed over the small pile they'd made earlier. She laughed at the crash and picked one up only to drop it happily.

"Why don't you hate me? I hit you," Eames said.

"Barely," Arthur scoffed. "Honestly. I think more of you than that."

"I hit you!" Eames insisted. Arthur rolled his eyes and he swore he could feel Eames catching the gesture over the line.

"You shoved me," Arthur corrected, glad Phillipa didn't actually listen to anyone not talking directly to her. He was more glad he was home alone with her for this. If Mal had been listening in, he would have had to structure his sentences very carefully. " _I_ hit _you_."

"You pushed my hands away because you didn't want to be touched," Eames fired back. "I knocked you to the ground. Very different. You were afraid. I wasn't."

"I wasn't afraid," Arthur lied. In the heat of the moment, the surprise of it all, he had been. He'd been standing up for himself in a way he didn't like doing. If he'd tried that stunt two years ago he'd have been pushed to the ground so much quicker and things wouldn't have stopped there. "Where are you?" he asked finally, unable to come up with anything else to say.

"Tangiers," Eames said. "You're in Los Angeles?"

"How did you know?" Arthur asked. He covered his trail very well, he knew.

"I can hear the baby in the background," Eames said. _Phillipa, not the baby,_ Arthur almost corrected, before letting it drop. "You're on a job?"

"CIA," Arthur replied. "We're experimenting with sedation. They've been trying dreaming in what they call "unstable environments" and want a formula that puts them far enough down that they have an unaffected dream but that can still be dropped."

"Puts them far enough down?" Eames echoed. "Are we talking levels here?"

"I thought so," Arthur admitted, keeping his eyes on Phillipa as he talked. She didn't seem to mind the interruption of their pre-bed playtime. "But Cobb figures we can create one level dreams that are deep enough to keep the dreamers topside without any real depth. We're getting close to satisfying the agents we're working with and so far all of the kicks have worked on me. The sedation makes the dream fuzzy tho—"

"Wait, you're going under like this?" Eames demanded. Arthur grinned, amazed that Eames still worried about him the way he did.

"Yeah, don't worry. We've got doctors and chemists and everything on call," he assured his boyfriend.

"They any good?" Eames asked, still suspicious and concerned.

"You don't get that high up in the CIA if you're not," Arthur pointed out. "They've stuck so many confidential stickers on it. It's like they don't realise that PASIVs have already been leaked to the underworld."

"Darling," Eames drawled, his tone about to point out the obvious. "I'm fairly certain they're preventing the underworld from leaking to the rest of the CIA."

"I'm the bad guy here then?" Arthur asked, glancing at Phillipa, smashing two wooden blocks together. She was too precious to be trapped with the bad guy, Arthur knew.

"On paper," Eames said.

"When can I see you again?" Arthur demanded, a sudden wave of homesickness crashing over him. He could feel Eames shaking his head.

"You should still be dumping me," he sighed.

"Three months ago you were asking me to build a future with you," Arthur retorted, surprised.

"That was before I hit you," Eames said. "It was before I realised that you can't build a family with me because you've found one in LA." Phillipa started crying about goodness-knows-what before Arthur could even begin to think of a reply. "That's the baby crying, that's your Phillipa."

"It's bedtime," Arthur said stupidly. "Look, ten minutes and I'll call you back, OK?"

 "Don't bother," Eames said gently. The line went dead.

*

A shadow fell over Eames's morning paper and coffee. He ignored whoever it was. He wasn't in a talking mood. The mystery person placed a coffee cup that twinned Eames's on the table and he glanced up then, glaring through his sunglasses. Arthur stood there, looking dapper in an honest-to-God three-piece suit and a pair of aviators. Eames felt inexplicably underdressed in what was weather- and event-appropriate attire.

"When I said not to call, I didn't mean that finding me in Tangiers was the better option," he said. Arthur shrugged coolly. "How did you even find me? I'm using all new ID."

"That's not important," Arthur said. "What is important is that you're trying to break up with me."

"I told you that you were dumping me," Eames said firmly, turning back to his paper. Arthur's weighted stare made him look back up.

"You can't tell me what to do," Arthur said, sitting elegantly in the wicker chair beside Eames's. They both watched the foot traffic of the square for a while, busy people rushing to hundreds of unconnected lives and stories.

"Why now?" Eames asked. "Why not when I first left you in Mombasa?"

"At first?" Arthur began, plucking up his coffee. "I was hoping you'd come home when you cooled down. And after that I was angry that you didn't. Then I figured you were angry at me for saying no and that you needed to have some time." He sipped his coffee and nodded slightly, approving of the taste. Eames locked the familiar mannerism away in his forging mind unconsciously. "I mean, I didn't realise you thought we were over."

"We should be over," Eames repeated. Arthur's face was stern like an interrogator's; he rolled his eyes behind his aviators. Eames didn't know what else to do. It was surprisingly hot for March, even if they were nearer to April.

 "I can deck you right here for being a dumbass," Arthur offered sarcastically. "We'll call it even." Eames couldn't help but chuckle. Arthur grinned and Eames could read that hopeful expression too clearly. He sighed, sobering them both as he shifted in his chair.

"No, I can't," he said. "I can't be like my dad, hitting you and making you take me back every time you try to walk out. I won't be that guy."  
   
"Simple fix," Arthur said. "Don't hit me anymore. Problem solved. Ready to come home now?"

"No!" he snapped. "It's not that simple!"

"Why the hell not?" Arthur asked. "I'm not trying to walk out; I'm fighting for this here." He leaned forward in his chair, his voice fierce in a way Eames wasn't sure he'd heard since he'd been freed from the goons in Vegas. "I'm not letting you give up on us. I'll try as hard as I can. I'll try hard enough that even if you don't, it'll still work."

Eames nodded lightly, searching Arthur's face for even an iota of doubt or insecurity and finding none. Arthur nodded back. He leaned away again, fingers trembling around his paper cup. "So," Eames said.

 "So," Arthur replied. "I've got a week off. What's cool around here?"


	18. Eavesdropping

"Good morning, sweetheart," a British voice said softly, reaching Mal's ears from the main door, freezing her search for a paper. She leaned back in her chair, peering at the handsome man who had entered their office bullpen. More than that, she watched Arthur smile and stand, moving to the stranger.

"Hey, babe," he said. The nicknames and the casual familiarity of the two wasn't lost on her as Arthur folded the older man into a welcoming kiss. "I thought your flight got in at noon? I was going to come and pick you up." Mal leaned forward again, listening dimly as she got her affairs in order.

"I had to catch an earlier one," the man said vaguely. "Where is everyone? Are we alone?"

"No, pervert," Arthur snapped. "Besides, there's no way you're getting any at work."

"That's honestly not what I meant," the other voice complained.

"Of course not," Arthur said, a smile in his voice. "You can set up over here. Mal should be in in a few minutes. Did you drop off your bags at our place yet?" Mal stood and scooped up her affairs.

"I dropped my stuff not half an hour ago." Mal let her heels click loudly—how she had missed them during the pregnancy—on the office floors as she rounded her office door. The British man had dumped his work bag on one of the empty workstations and straightened from his slouch as she entered, lifting his hips from their lean on the desk.

 "Good morning, Arthur," she said brightly, kissing her boy's cheek hello. Like a proper French boy would, he kissed her back, touching her arm gently as he leaned down to her. She'd trained him well.

"Good morning, Mal," he replied. "This is Mr Eames," he said, gesturing to the older man. Mal could tell he was about thirty, barely younger than her, she'd bet. He was good looking, had an easy charm, and she immediately disliked him. "He's the forger Cobb recommended." Mal nodded; she did remember Dom talking about this man. She wondered how Arthur felt about working with his secret boyfriend under all of their noses. The two were certainly keeping their hands to themselves in a way she didn't with Dom. "Eames, this is Mrs. Mallory Cobb."

"How do you do, Mrs Cobb?" he asked politely, shaking her hand when she offered it. His hands were much warmer than Arthur's were, she noted.

"I'm well, thank you," she replied. "Do you have a first name, Mr Eames?" He chuckled.

"Not one that I like very much," he admitted. "Just Eames is fine." She nodded at him, scanning his outfit. He wasn't wearing a tie and his shirt was rather a horrid, purple eggplant.

"Of course. Shall we?" she asked, gesturing at the conference room. Arthur smiled as they walked over to where his presentation, on the job and the mark, was no doubt ready to be launched. He pulled the door open for Mal and Eames.

"Thank you, Arthur," Eames said, smiling at the younger man. Mal rounded to the far side, sitting in one of the high-back office chairs. She noted Eames had been watching her movements absently, and she wondered how long it would be until he could forge her flawlessly. That was the danger of working with forgers. They could use your face in so many ways.

Arthur passed them portfolios from the small pile of files he had at the head of the table. He leaned over, clicking at his laptop and the projector hummed to life. A man of about fifty or fifty five found himself projected onto the white wall, his mug shot probably not his most flattering photo. He had dark, silvering hair and a square face; both were features that would no doubt be attractive if not paired with the awful grimace.

"This is our mark," Arthur said. "Phillip Jacob Dunhill. Goes by Jacob, aged fifty-three, no children, two marriages. His first wife, Joanne,—" A photo of the same man, young and handsome, beaming next to an equally beautiful redheaded woman flashed upon the wall. "—was killed in a car accident when he was twenty eight and his second wife, Terri, started looking for divorce lawyers shortly after his arrest." The same man looked decidedly happy in a restaurant next to an Asian woman with ridiculously tiny eyebrows. "He founded Dunhill Construction fifteen years ago and it's one of the most successful construction companies in the area. He built it from the ground up and they're the ones behind all those hideous suburbs out near Pomona." An advertisement for Orchard Estates, all happy white families in front of model homes of boring colours and no trees in sight, let alone any orchards. Mal hated model homes. Driving down a street with the same four houses over and over again made her frustrated. French houses were always so old and gorgeous, all wooden staircases and that sticky, sweet smell she was certain was wallpaper glue, high ceilings and chandeliers. Americans had such boring, modern tastes; houses that looked like offices, not homey at all. "Unfortunately, his charming story of a self-made man is ruined by the fact that he's currently being held in the local prison on murder charges."

"Who did he kill?" Eames asked. Arthur flipped open his own portfolio and Mal followed suit. "And how did you get the copies of the police reports? Aren't police servers usually really secure?" Arthur shrugged nonchalantly as a photo of a high school graduation appeared; a blonde girl with bright green eyes, smiling with her parents on the screen. She was the spitting image of her mother; her father a Ken doll of all-American good looks.

"That's not important," he said. "What is important is that he allegedly murdered Emma Front Jr., daughter of Dr. Kyle Anderson and his wife, Dr. Emma Front. They're paying us to seal the state's case against Mr. Dunhill."

"What's the state's problem in the case?" Mal asked.

"They can't find the gun that shot Ms. Front," Arthur replied. "We are being paid to find out where he's hidden it."

"Do you believe that he killed the girl?" Eames asked. Arthur shrugged again, rolling up his sleeves as he stared at his case file and copious notes.

"It seems fairly obvious to me," he replied slowly. "I think they were having an affair. Her parents attest that she had a secret boyfriend and her best friend says the man was married but was going to dump his wife for Emma. That's not something people actually ever do. I've never seen someone divorce the spouse for the mistress. They try to come clean to their spouse, the spouse divorces them and sometimes they end up with the mistress. Or whatever the male form of the word mistress is; I've seen it go both ways." Arthur sat in his chair, absently scratching his ear. "I think Emma was going to tell Mrs. Dunhill unless he broke it off."

"Emma was twenty two," Mal said. "Do you think such a young girl would be daring enough?"

"If she loved him, yes," Arthur said. "We have access to the prison and I can have him sedated for us to come in any night except Wednesdays. My guy doesn't work that night. We have until November 25th so we'll have to start quickly. We only have nine weeks for this."

"We could do it in six, love," Eames assured the boy absently. Mal scowled at him. Why did Arthur have to date an Englishman of all people? She could just feel that the man would be insufferable and what gave him the right to date Arthur anyway? He was much too old and Arthur was much better looking than he was. This man was probably boorish and rude. He wasn't even wearing a tie and reeked of cigarettes. She would have to speak to Arthur and see if he would be around for long.

She didn't realise she would be such a protective mother, sweeping in, needed or not, to safeguard a child who wasn't really hers. 

*

Eames patted his jacket, frustrated. Maybe Arthur had a point about the mere convenience of not being a smoker. His boyfriend could work all morning and take lunch at an appropriate hour whereas he got cravings and had to come outside and make up the time later in the day. Also, Arthur didn't have to carry around lighters constantly. If he lost one, it was annoying as hell. He was standing in the cold, pre-rain air and had hoped to have a quick cigarette before the skies opened up and poured down. It seemed that Lady Luck wasn't on his side today.

"You're still angry with me because of the loaded dice thing, aren't you?" he asked aloud. "I was cheating on the casino, not on you." Lady Luck didn't reply, probably because she didn't actually exist. He realised he was talking to himself in a parking lot in LA. The door opened loudly and Eames smiled politely at Mrs. Cobb as she exited the building.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," he said.

"No, it's not," she replied. "It will rain. Phillipa will have cabin fever by the time Dom and I get home. She loves being outside."

"You have a beautiful daughter, by the way," he offered. "I saw the photos in Cobb's office and, uh." Mal's gaze was cold and Eames faltered slightly. "She's lovely. She has your eyes, I think. She's a year old now?"

"Fifteen months," she corrected particularly. "She turned one in May." He nodded, inexplicably nervous. In the professional environment, Mrs. Cobb seemed fine with him. She had treated him the same as any other employee that wasn't Arthur or her husband in the past few weeks. Outside of the office, he could tell she was judging him, despising him. He felt like he was fourteen and under a microscope; he remembered living at home and treading on eggshells to not upset his father, trying to please his mother so, so hard. He felt like he wasn't in control anymore, like nothing he did could change the way Mal disliked him. Was this why Arthur didn't like having dinner with his aunt? He remembered he used to find it funny when his girlfriend's parents didn't like him, back when he was actually fourteen and dating Hannah. It wasn't funny that the Cobbs didn't like him and this was a relationship that actually mattered.

"Do you happen to have a light?" he asked after a moment. Mal frowned at him.

"It's bright outside," she said. He chuckled kindly.

"No, I meant, a lighter," he explained, miming with his thumb. "Do you have something to light this with?" He hefted his cigarette and she continued to frown. He didn't know why she seemed to hate him, honestly. He was good at his job and he was certain he'd be nice to Phillipa if given the chance. "Never mind," he said.

"Smoking is a bad habit," she told him.

"Yeah," he agreed dimly. "Yeah, it is."

"You should quit," she said. He nodded nervously, sliding his cigarette back into the pack. "You are how many years old?"

"Thirty-two this past June," he said. She shook her head angrily and he cleared his throat. "I'm, uh. I'm going to get back to work, then."

"Mr. Eames," she said, halting him as he began to go back inside.

"Yes?" he asked. It began to drizzle.

"If you hurt that boy, I will kill you," she told him. He blinked. "That is not a threat. That is not a warning. That is a fact. If you hurt my boy, I _will_ kill you." He nodded solemnly and opened the door for her.

"If I hurt Arthur," he began, "I'd welcome it."

"I don't like you," she said. "That doesn't change it. You're old, you're silly and you're not good enough for Arthur and I will try to make him see that." He nodded, not even trying to challenge her.

"Besides, you're English," she snapped, re-entering the stairwell. She muttered something rude-sounding in French and pulled the door shut behind her.

*

"So, Mal knows we're together," Eames offered, spitting toothpaste into the sink. Arthur pulled back the shower curtain and blinked at Eames through the steam. He was covered in shampoo suds, his hair getting unruly in its length. Eames smiled casually into the foggy mirror and Arthur nodded his acknowledgement awkwardly.

"How long have you been in here?" he asked. Eames shrugged at the mirror, watching Arthur.

"Couple of minutes, why?" Arthur's toothbrush, sitting in the cup on the counter, was purple, he noticed. Why didn't he have a cool toothbrush too?

"I did not hear you come in. You scared me for a second," Arthur admitted, pulling the curtain closed again. "But you're serious? She knows that we're together? How?"

"I didn't ask," Eames replied. "But yeah, she knows. She doesn't approve." Arthur scoffed at him and flicked the shower off. He pulled his towel into the shower. Eames cocked his eyebrow, wondering why Arthur was being all shy. "I've been dating you for two years, Arthur; I know what you look like naked. We've had sex in that shower."

"I could care less if you saw me naked," Arthur said. "But if you pull back the curtain right away all the hot air gets out. If I do that, I'm wet and cold."

"So you dry off actually in the shower?" he questioned. Arthur pulled back the curtain, towel slung about his waist. "How did I not know that?" Arthur shrugged, stepping out of the shower. "The hot air thing, that's a good idea."

"I'll never assume to know the limit of the things you don't," he joked. "You don't know if she doesn't approve. She's bound to be prickly because I let her and Cobb hire you without mentioning it. She'll like you—"

"She's threatened to kill me," Eames put in. Arthur seemed genuinely surprised. "She told me I was too old and stupid for you. And also that you're better than me. There's no way that means approval, not even with the French." He pulled the bathroom door open and Arthur followed him into the bedroom.

"Wait, she actually said she'd kill you?" he demanded. Eames nodded, sitting on the bed and leaning down to pull off his socks.

"If I hurt you, yeah," he agreed.

"Oh," Arthur said brightly, turning and pulling his sleep pants out of their drawer. "Well, that's fine then."

"Really?" Eames asked. He had thought for sure Arthur would get upset that Mal knew—

"No, you idiot!" Arthur snapped. "No, I'm not thrilled that this is how she found out. I'm also not thrilled that you've done something to make her not like you!" He folded his arms and Eames was distracted by his boyfriend's damp chest for a moment. Arthur snapped his fingers at him. "Focus."

"I am focused," he lied. Arthur cocked a brow at him. He tore his eyes off of Arthur's body. "It's a compliment. That you're distracting," Eames said, floundering for an excuse. He balled his socks and tossed them into the wicker hamper Arthur had in the corner. He began on his buttons. "And I'm nice to her. You've seen us working!" He balled up his shirt and tossed it too. "I'm perfectly polite! She's the one with the problem." Arthur rolled his eyes, pulling his towel free and drying his hair. Eames lost his sentence again, wondering how Arthur could expose more of his lovely self and still expect Eames to be focused on such a trivial detail like Mal not liking him. Arthur turned to hang up his towel on the back of the door. Eames might have made a little appreciative sound as Arthur stepped into his sleep pants because _that ass_. Arthur pulled his shirt out of the drawer next.

"Honestly, don't bother with the shirt," Eames told him. "You look awesome. You smell amazing. I'm going to be undressing you when we finish talking." Arthur laughed, folding the shirt again. Eames grinned; he loved making Arthur laugh. "Has it occurred to you," Eames began again, "that she doesn't like me because she's protective of you?"

"That's silly," Arthur said, hopping onto the bed and sitting cross-legged beside Eames.

"Is it?" he asked. Arthur kissed his shoulder. "Why is it silly?" He turned his head to look at Arthur, who shrugged.

"I'm a grown man," he said. "I'm not Phillipa. Why would she be protective of me? Eames, think about it, I'm just some guy that she cares about."

"She calls you "her boy"," Eames told him. "She thinks of you as her child and mothers have never liked me."

"She really said that?" Arthur said after a moment, voice soft. Eames nodded, amazed that Arthur hadn't realised how much he'd become a part of that family. Arthur looked away, embarrassed. The tips of his ears turned pink, his hands lax in his lap.

"Hey," Eames said, cupping the back of his neck and pulling him in. He pressed his lips to Arthur's forehead, his dark hair flopping into his eyes. "It'll be OK. She'll come around." Arthur pulled away and sighed. Eames took one of his hands, waiting for whatever it was.

"I never thought I'd have to do this," Arthur admitted. "I never thought I'd be able to do this."

"Do what, love?" Eames asked. Arthur shrugged again, looking very small to Eames in that moment.

"Worry about whether or not my boyfriend will be liked," he said. "I never thought I'd get to have a boyfriend, let alone someone to introduce him to." Eames nodded, understanding. "It's kind of like a second chance for me, all of this." Arthur gestured vaguely between them. "I mean, I don't know what my parents would have thought about you. About us. I don't know what they'd have thought about a lot of things. And now… now, I just really don't want to mess it up. Mal doesn't like you. Your aunt already hates me. This was our last chance to be normal with each other's families."

"My aunt would have hated any guy I brought home," Eames reassured Arthur. "Don't worry. Mal will come round."

"And if she doesn't?" Arthur demanded. Eames shrugged.

"Life goes on."

*

"This is risky," Mal said, Phillipa snoring against her shoulder. Dom shrugged at her, sifting through the newspaper absently as he avoided her sharp gaze. "I don't like working with these men and you promised before that it would be the last job." Dom sighed.

"Mal, I thought it would be the last time they'd come calling," he explained. She scoffed at him elegantly. "You know what they're offering."

"Money," she sneered.

"No," he said, lowering the paper. "I admit the money is great, but it's a chance to explore that world without limitations, to take things that could never exist and create them, turn them into reality. It's a loss of all the chains. It's true freedom down there, Mal. Not even death is a hindrance."

"I know how amazing it is, Dom," Mal interrupted. "But I also know the way they study us. I don't want my family to become another guinea pin for the CIA." He tossed the paper onto the coffee table and stood.

"Guinea pig," he corrected lightly. "I've already said yes. It pays well; it's an excellent job. You don't have to be involved if you don't want to work with them." He touched her lower back, following her to Phillipa's room.

"But you'll be calling Arthur to be involved?" she asked. "He's spending Christmas in Spain, he said." Dom nodded. "Don't bother him until after the holidays," Mal ordered as Dom scooped Phillipa out of her arms. She brushed her daughter's hair nervously, pushing her bangs out of her sleepy eyes. "It's a busy season for him, you know. He has Christmas, his anniversary and then New Years."

"Anniversary?" Dom chuckled. "He and Eames celebrate their anniversary?" Mal smacked his shoulder lightly. "Ow! What? You don't even like Eames!"

"Why wouldn't they?" Mal demanded. "Young people make the anniversaries just like married people do. And I never said I didn't like him. I may have threatened his life, but Arthur loves him. So I do too."

"You don't like him," Dom repeated, tucking Phillipa into her bed. Mal flicked off the light, pinching her face into that worried look of hers.

"No, I don't," she admitted. "He's British and old. He makes Arthur happy so I pretend to like him, but no. I don't like him at all." Dom kissed her cheek comfortingly. "Don't tell Arthur." He chuckled, shutting Phillipa's door.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he promised needlessly. Everyone and their cousin knew Mal didn't like Eames; she wasn't subtle. She'd shot him in the face when they'd completed the last job when he'd tried to give Arthur a congratulatory kiss. She'd claimed she was just waking him up so he could kick them all awake, but everyone knew she was really trying to protect the boy's virtue or something. No one said anything when they all woke up, but even Dom, thick as he could be, could feel the strain of tension between her and Eames, could see Eames trying to get her to see how great he was to her boy. She refused to give him an inch for his mile.

It had turned out that Phillip Jacob Dunhill had hidden the gun and a plethora of other evidence in the cement of the foundation of one of his houses. It was rather an ingenious idea, Cobb had to admit. Mal smiled at him. He kissed her gently. "Bed?" he asked. "I'm not British or old," he tempted, teasing. She smacked his shoulder again.

"Be nice," she ordered with a laugh.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

 * 

"Eames."

"Arthur," he replied in the same bizarre tone. He turned to look at Arthur. "Why are you whispering?" Arthur shook his head urgently. His hair was short for the first time Eames had seen, almost a buzz cut. He knew it would grow back out, but he already missed running his hand through Arthur's hair, the way the gentle curls would hold his fingers. One of Arthur's scars cut up through the back, a strip of white skin buried in short, dark bristles.

"Nope," he said. "No, it's a no-go. Let's get the hell out of here." Eames turned away from the painting he'd been studying.

"What are you talking about? You're not calm," Eames pointed out. "We're in a museum. It's a very calm environment. Take a breath." Arthur humoured him, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Why are you freaking out?"

"This guy is insane," Arthur said. "He's buried in the other room, did you know that? There's a legit _body_ over there." Eames looked at the main room and shrugged.

"People were buried in that church earlier," he pointed out. "Practically the entire floor was made out of tombs."

"What!" Arthur demanded. "Are you serious?" Eames shrugged apologetically and Arthur groaned. Eames half-grinned, amazed.

"You're freaked out by the dead bodies?" Eames guessed, not quite believing it. Arthur pulled a face, shaking his head again. "You've shot about a hundred projections in the face and this is what freaks you out?" Arthur ignored him, looking at the Picasso painting with Eames. "See?" he said, gesturing at the eyes of the painting. Arthur made a mild, concerning noise. "It's interesting. Nothing to be bothered by."

"He met his wife by rubbing cow shit on himself to impress her," Arthur snapped. "And having a moustache so large, flies were attracted to it. No. It's too weird. This guy is insane. Look at that!" He pointed at the painting across the way. Eames did. It seemed fairly standard to him: naked women and food. "I don't like it here."

"Cow shit?" Eames echoed, turning back to the Picasso portrait. He couldn't decide if It was a tiny guitar or a banjo in Picasso's spoon-nose. "He met Gala by rubbing cow shit on himself?" Arthur sighed, leaning against the velvet wall. Eames began to feel a little bad. Arthur really seemed uncomfortable.

"I don't know if it's fact," he admitted. "The tour guide with the French people said that. He was just obsessed with her and it's freaking me out, I admit." Eames patted his shoulder awkwardly. "I want to leave. This is weird."

"It's art," Eames told him.

"We're standing in a room that was originally designed to be a fish market," Arthur said. "He wanted this museum to contain his works and also a fish market. He's buried, like, twelve meters away!"

"If you want to go," Eames began, "we will. I'm surprised you didn't find it the least bit interesting." Arthur shook his head again. "You're spooked by Salvador Dali." Arthur glared and he couldn't help but grin.

"Shut up," Arthur groaned. Eames wrapped his arm around Arthur's waist and kissed his ear gently.

"It's OK," Eames promised. "Come on, we'll go." Arthur sighed as Eames led him out.

"I'm sorry," he said miserably. Eames couldn't help but notice how Arthur very purposely did not step on or really look at the grey slab of tomb in the middle of the great room.

"It's all right," Eames chuckled. "But now you have to come swimming with me later." Arthur slid on his Ray-Ban's as they exited the museum. Eames mimicked him, loving the bright sun. It wasn't quite Mombasa's light, but it was close. "It's beautiful out."

"Can we go to the aquarium?" Arthur asked. "I like fish."

"Should I get you fish for our anniversary?" Eames wondered. "Slash Christmas." Arthur took his hand. "I feel like my present sucked."

"You got me the watch I'd been secretly lusting after!" Arthur rebuked. "I like this watch. I don't even know how you knew I wanted one, let alone how you found one." He shook up his sport coat sleeve, showing Eames the 50’s era Rolex he'd plucked out of an antique shop. It hadn't worked but Eames hadn't needed to worry. Arthur had peeled it apart on Boxing Day and now it ticked happily at his wrist. "Fish aren't travelling pets in any case. I move around too much to have fish." Arthur admired his watch for a moment before lowering his arm again.

"You should stop moving around and come live with me, then," Eames said. Arthur bumped their shoulders, a silent no. "I know, I know. Just thought I'd ask. I think I'll ask you every Tuesday until you say yes."

"You're cute," Arthur said. "You're really gonna do that?" Eames shrugged.

"Every Tuesday I'm with you, sure," he said. "I can be patient."

"Pig-headed, more like."  



	19. A Novel On Life

 Arthur was fretting over Eames's suitcase, rolling ties and refolding pants. He was anxious, as he had been for the past week or so. Eames smiled sadly; he hated watching Arthur worry like this. That was the reason why he usually didn't tell Arthur he was leaving until the day before. It didn't help, he was certain, that the last time they'd split up had been just after their big fight. 

Arthur began to zip the suitcase but stopped, reopening it. Eames pushed off of the doorframe, placing his hands on Arthur's hips. "Darling," Eames said, resting his chin on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur was a bit taller, but Eames could still lean on him like this. "I'm packed. I'm ready." Arthur shook his head.

"No, no, I just thought you might need—"

"I'm only going to be working for a month or so before I head back to Mombasa," Eames pointed out. "I can do laundry if I need clothes, buy things if I need them and before you know it we'll be spending Easter in Mombasa together. It will be great." Arthur nodded anxiously. Eames kissed his ear. "It's fine. It's January for another week and then it will be only three months away."

"I know," Arthur said. "I'm being silly."

"Yes," Eames agreed, releasing his boyfriend. Arthur nodded, zipping the suitcase shut. "Why did you pack for me anyways? Don't you usually tell me to do shit on my own?" Arthur shrugged.

"I don't want you to leave," Arthur admitted. Eames sighed, smoothing his hair down in the back. He hated these moments.

"I know," he said. "Staying means people find out. It is Tuesday tomorrow, you know—"

"Eames," Arthur sighed, a small smile on his face despite his exasperated tone. Eames chuckled, taking the suitcase from Arthur.

"I know," he repeated. "I will miss you, you know. You're in charge of calling me. I kept getting the time difference wrong last time."

"Every time you'd wake me up, I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, you know," Arthur confessed, following Eames out into the main room. He placed his suitcase by the door, raising an eyebrow at Arthur. "You'd wake me up and we'd talk. When you hung up, it was like you'd left or I'd gone all over again. I miss you when you're gone."

"Why do we leave each other, then?" Eames asked. "Aside from all the risks. Why doesn't the pro of being together cancel out the cons?" Arthur frowned, thinking. Eames watched him, the way the afternoon light sifted through the window in a sharp lane, dust dancing in front of Arthur's face like snow, white and cold against the warm gold of the setting sun. Arthur bit the side of his lower lip absently, thinking. His mouth was pale and in such a pretty, delicate bow. His eyes were dark and serious and Eames wished he would dream of those eyes later.

"It's got to be good for us or it wouldn't work," he said. "Distance makes the heart grow fonder and all that jazz." Arthur forced a smile, moving forward to cup Eames's face and kiss him firmly, chaste but insistent. "I love you," Arthur said, releasing him. "I don't want you to doubt that when we're apart." Arthur's slender hands brushed over Eames's arms, tracing the curve of his bicep, familiar.

"I don't doubt it," Eames assured him. "I do hate leaving, however." Arthur nodded sympathetically. "I have to go. I wish I could stay. You could call in sick. We could make out, take a dog for a walk. Have a picnic." Arthur snorted and laughed.

"What dog?" he demanded.

"Hang out, sit there and talk," Eames continued, ignoring the fact neither of them actually had a dog that required walking. He kissed Arthur quickly, barely tasting his lips against his own. "But not about the future. I wish I didn't have to go home." He sighed heavily and Arthur's smile was sad. "I could miss my flight?"

"Go," Arthur said. "I'll see you before you know it," he said. "I love you. We'll be close on the phone. We know when we'll see each other again this time." Eames nodded. The apartment buzzer sounded.

"Mr, uh, Douglas? I'm the cab; we're good to go," said the fuzzy PA.

"That's me," Eames said unnecessarily. "I've to go." Arthur nodded, kissing him one last time. Eames winked at Arthur as he swung his suitcase over the threshold. The door clicking shut rarely felt so final.

 * 

Cobb leaned over the PASIV, setting its timer as their CIA agent set up to watch over Arthur and him sleeping. For all he loved experimentation jobs like this, he hated the clinical settings, the white cots and the way the CIA would always use perfect, pristine, white legal pads a centimetre thick. He and Arthur scribbled in notebooks and loose leaf like madmen with whatever pencil or pen they could find. The Mont Blancs were irritating after a while.

"I'll give us three minutes," Cobb began, "with low sedation so we will be aware enough that reality can affect our levels." Arthur nodded, accepting the cannula from Cobb's outreached hand. "I want us to land in your LA apartment when we go down. You need practice at drawing up a location on the fly." Arthur glared lightly but didn't say anything, swinging his legs up onto the awful, sterile cot and static pillow.

"How many layers?" Agent Walker asked. He posed his fancy pen to note Cobb's answer. Cobb inserted his own cannula.

"Two," he replied. The agent nodded and leaned forward, pressing the button and Cobb fell into warm sleep.

He felt disoriented for a second, in a void, and then he happened upon Arthur, standing at the counter of a small, warm kitchen. His fridge was black and nearly completely covered in magnets with logos, magnets with photos, holding to-do lists and postcards. Pots hung from nails under the cupboards made of new, unstained wood. The counter held a bowl of apples and pears. The PASIV sat on a low coffee table in front of a beat-up green couch next to a tall, simple lamp. Cobb imagined the short hallway led to bathroom and bedrooms.

A tank of fish sat in the corner beside the windows; bright coral and happy fish swimming about. Arthur had a starfish clinging to the glass and a clownfish swam in pleasant loops. Cobb didn't picture Arthur to be the type to have fish.

"This is your place?" he asked, admiring the bookshelf, covered in textbooks, novels, and binders. Arthur nodded, moving around to join Cobb by the couch.

"More or less," he said. Cobb raised an eyebrow, confused. "You say never to recreate places entirely. I don't actually have fish and this carpet is a lot cleaner than the one I have at home" Cobb hummed his approval. "What are we doing here? I mean, are we testing second layer kicks still or—"

"Yeah, just routine stuff," he replied, sitting in the blue armchair by the couch. Arthur's TV remote sat on top of the TV, dusty. "Why have the remote on top of the TV? You'd still have to get up to change channels and that would defeat the purpose of a remote." Arthur smiled at that.

"I don't really watch TV," Arthur said. "It gets in the way when I'm working at the coffee table." Arthur grabbed a kitchen chair and brought it over to the PASIV.

"If you die in the dream, you wake up," Cobb said. Arthur nodded, confused.

"Yeah, so?" Arthur unbuttoned his cuff, rolling up his sleeve.

"If you die on the second level, what happens?" he wondered. "You'd still wake up, right?" Arthur frowned, considering.

"I'd wake up on the first level," he said.

"Why not reality?" Cobb asked, taking Arthur's arm and fitting the cannula into his wrist for him.

"When you kick me in reality and I'm two levels down, the dream shifts but I usually don't wake up," Arthur said. "In a good, stable dream, I have to be kicked up to the first before reality. Even when we've collapsed the dream, I swear I feel the first level before I wake up. Besides, we can't go down to the second level immediately. Why would I be able to skip the first to wake up but not on my way down?" Makes sense, Cobb thought. "I also don't think I'd wake up at all sometimes. The sedation the CIA uses is heavy."

"The dream would be over," Cobb said. "The PASIV would be off. Where else would you go?" Arthur shrugged, staring at the machine.

"I don't know," he replied. "I just feel like there's something that can suck you in and trap you, lingering beneath our feet. That even if we don't mean to, we could fall deeper instead of up."

"You watched too many scary movies as a child," Cobb said. Arthur grinned, shrugging.

"Maybe I did," he agreed.

"Eames lives here with you?" he asked, fiddling with the PASIV settings as Arthur prepared to go down. He sat in the kitchen chair, ready to be tipped by Cobb when it was time.

"When he's in LA, we live here," he replied. "Mal hates him."

"I don't care for him either," Cobb admitted. "He's too old for you." Arthur sighed.

"We're only twelve years apart," he pointed out. He was as stubborn as Mal was and Cobb wondered if Phillipa would inherit the trait too. "Our age difference has never once been an issue for us so I don't see how it's an issue at all."

"How old were you when you met? How old was he?" Cobb demanded.

"I was seventeen; he was twenty nine," Arthur recited obediently.

"And how long until you two were living together?" he prompted. He didn't expect Arthur to smile at a private joke.

"We moved in together almost immediately," he said.

"Do you see why that's worrying?" Cobb asked. "You weren't even a legal adult and you were living with some old-ass gigolo." Arthur laughed and Cobb raised an eyebrow. "What is funny about that?"

"He wasn't a gigolo," Arthur said, grinning. He repeated the word once more before sobering. "He didn't take advantage of me, Cobb, I assure you. He helped me out and maybe we started dating about a month after we met. Not a big deal. We didn't even start sleeping together till, like, a year after."

"Ew," Cobb said seriously, frowning at Arthur.

"Are you grossed out by sex?" Arthur teased, talking down to Cobb.

"You're also too young to be sleeping with someone," he said. "But that's not something I want to think about."

"It's just sex," Arthur put in. "It's not something that requires a whole lot of anything." Cobb really didn't want to think about Arthur with anyone, let alone Eames. It was like picturing his brother with someone he knew; it wasn't something he was comfortable with. He knew logically where his niece had come from but he didn't want to have to picture it.

"We're just never going to trust him with you, that's all," Cobb said. "I do want to know the story of how you two met one day, however. I feel like your life is a novel I've never read, Arthur. Just sitting on a bookshelf waiting." Arthur smiled.

"Maybe one day," he agreed. "How long will I be waiting for the kick?"

"We'll give it sixty minutes below, which gives me about twenty five or so up here, and takes two minutes upstairs," he said. "Focus on making the second layer stable and maybe practice a bit, nothing specific today." Arthur nodded, settling back against his chair. "Sweet dreams." 

 "That's cheesy," he murmured. Cobb pressed the button and Arthur's eyes fell shut, head lolling against his shoulder. Reality would've loaned him a sore neck; the dream kept that to herself.

Cobb waited, making sure the PASIV was humming happily and Arthur's pulse was steady and strong against his neck. He moved to the bookshelf, searching for the book he'd mentioned to Arthur. He hoped that it had shown up. He finally found the small, plain book, out of place among Molière and Shakespeare. The cover was a soft, grey cloth and Cobb opened it up.

It was filled with photos and pictures, little stories scribbled in the margins in Arthur's neat, exact printing. There was a cover sheet listing Arthur's age and other specifics, mostly things Cobb already knew. He didn't know Arthur was allergic to kiwi. How random. He flipped further.

There was a photo of what he could only assume was Arthur's mother. They had the same dark, wavy hair and soft eyes, smiling, bow-like lips. Arthur was no more than three, perched upon his mother's hip, smiling hugely, his tiny, pink hand pressed to his mother's, held as if they were dancing. She was beaming at him, her long hair curling down her back. Cobb could see that grown-up Arthur had the same slender, leanly powerful build as his mother, a stronger jaw-line that probably came from his father. He turned the page.

Arthur's father was handsome in a rural sort of way, his nose crooked from being broken once or twice. He and his son poured over the innards of a computer, seated at a homemade kitchen table. Cobb flipped through Arthur's childhood, reading the small anecdotes and entries and admiring the photos of Arthur's growth. He knew, from Mal, that Arthur's parents had died when he was little; he read through waiting to see how.

He was amazed at how quickly baby Arthur learned to write, to read, to ride a bike, drive. He studied an image of Arthur, no more than ten, watching the innards of an old, out-dated PASIV whirl, his parents sleeping alongside another man on a hotel bed, feet swinging from the desk chair. He wondered if his daughter would grow as quickly as this boy had, if she'd turn into a smart-ass twenty year old in the space of mere pages too.

Arthur couldn't have been more than thirteen when Cobb reached the middle of the book. He almost dropped the tome, shocked. Arthur's beautiful mother lay dead, her dress torn and her hair in tattered braids. Her face was still streaked with tears, her forehead neatly shot out. Arthur's father lay not far off, by the tipped and torn couch. His face was broken and bloody and he was as still and dead as his wife. The room was destroyed, blood and broken things everywhere. The memories showed Arthur pulled from his hiding spot in a cupboard. Cobb stared at the images: Arthur thrown through a window, tiny and vomiting from shock in an alley, shoulders cut and soaking his shirt with blood. Cobb realised that scar running up the back of Arthur's head had come from that, that his body probably housed a map to this tragedy. Cobb forced himself to breathe, looking up at Arthur, the real Arthur.

 He hadn't noticed Cobb's reading, eyes dancing across his closed eyelids. He really did look a lot like his mother, long eyelashes and all. Suddenly, Cobb felt incredibly guilty, prying into Arthur's life like this. His curiosity as to how Arthur came to them and how he came into dreaming seemed less important when he had the actual secrets in hand. Arthur's parents had been murdered and Arthur had trusted him, trusted Mal to act like a mother, despite witnessing such a thing. Mal's protectiveness seemed so much more justified and Cobb had completely undermined it. He closed the book, placing it on the table as he prepared to kick Arthur. He tipped the young man back, the chair tilting dangerously on two legs. He released the back of the chair and Arthur jerked awake easily as he fell forwards.

"How was it?" Cobb asked casually.

"It was fine," Arthur replied, standing and straightening his vest. It seemed he'd left his suit jacket topside. Cobb wondered why Arthur's subconscious would dress him less formally to work. _His mind trusts me,_ Cobb realised. "It was clear and easy. We can definitely start using two layers on jobs soon if we do a bit more second level work with a dreamer and a subject." He grabbed the chair, tucking it back under the kitchen table with a few quick strides.

"You know this isn't actually your apartment; you don't have to clean up after us," Cobb said, hoping Arthur wouldn't notice the out-of-place book. Arthur shrugged.

"Force of habit, I guess." Cobb smiled as time ran out and they woke up.

*

"What are you doing on Valentine's Day?" Cobb asked as Arthur and he rode the elevator down to the ground floor of the CIA building. Arthur shrugged. Valentine's Day had seemed so far away and yet, now, it was just around the corner. He and Eames never celebrated Valentine's; their first had been spent taking Arthur to the hospital and fleeing Mombasa. Their second they'd been apart, Eames in Minneapolis and Arthur in Toronto. Their third was during that three month period where they weren't on speaking terms, when Eames wouldn't pick up Arthur's calls. They were apart now too, but they'd have Easter together soon enough.

"Nothing, why?" Arthur replied. He watched Cobb fiddle with his cell phone in the reflection of the mirrored doors.

"I was wondering if you'd watch Phillipa," Cobb said, tucking his phone back into his pocket and smiling at Arthur. Arthur could tell something was off and wondered what had happened in his dream-apartment while he was under. He wondered if their conversation before he'd gone to the second level had bothered Cobb. He hoped they didn't dislike Eames that much. "Mal and I have dinner and hotel reservations." Arthur smiled at the subtle romance in that one sentence.

"I'd be delighted to watch her," he said. It was true. He loved watching Phillipa. She was old enough now to toddle and babble. She was going to be the spitting image of her mother one day, he knew, even if she had Cobb's baby-blonde hair. He suspected it would darken as she got older. She already had Mal's eyes, cutting and curious.

"Also, Mal wants to know if you can come to dinner tonight," he said, pulling his phone out and looking at a text. "She says she has big news for us." Cobb shrugged and tucked the phone away again. Arthur raised an eyebrow as Cobb glanced at him. "I have no idea. She says to be at the house for eight o'clock."

"I can do that," Arthur agreed easily, following Cobb out of the elevator.

"Don't wear a suit for once," Cobb dared him. "Try out a  t-shirt or something. Buy one on the way home." Arthur frowned, smoothing his tie coolly in the empty lobby.

"I own many t-shirts," he replied. He exited the CIA's tall, glass building, holding the door for Cobb out of habit more than anything. "I have tourist t-shirts. I have a few concert shirts and I have, also, a sports jersey."

"What sport do you play?" Cobb demanded. Arthur shrugged, unwilling to admit he didn't know. He wondered how obvious it was that he was gay: he couldn't do typical "man" things like sports teams, didn't drink, loved fancy clothing and could probably name about ten shades of purple off the top of his head. At least he was handy around the house whereas Eames, a stereotypical man in many ways, couldn't find his way around a hammer.

"I don't play. I use it to sleep in. It's red," he offered. Cobb hummed a sarcastic agreement. "I swear, I own one."

"Sure you do," Cobb said, lifting his arm for a cab. In this area of LA, one pulled over almost immediately. Cobb opened the door. "Get in, kiddo. I'll see you tonight." Arthur accepted Cobb's friendly clap on the shoulder, dimly remembering a time when such a thing would make him flinch.

"Yeah, at dinner," he agreed, letting Cobb shut the door for him. He told the cabbie his cross streets and waved at Cobb as he pulled away.

*

Eames jolted awake, cool air sweeping under the blanket. He tried to sit, reaching for the gun in the nightstand. A hand grabbed his wrist, pulling him back to the bed. Eames struck out with the other hand, only to be blocked and gently pinned down, a voice laughing. He froze, half-asleep and confused.

"It's me," a familiar voice whispered. Eames's eyes began to adjust to the dark and the cold airflow was cut off as someone climbed the rest of the way under the covers. He could see now that it was Arthur and he smiled tiredly, relaxing into the pillows once more. "Missed you." A kiss on his neck.

"I took a NyQuil earlier and I'm drowsy as fuck," Eames said stupidly, snuggling against Arthur's familiar body. Arthur settled against one of his shoulders and Eames's arm circled around his slender back easily. "So I think I'm a page behind you. I missed you too," he added, after a moment of thinking about what his line was supposed to be in this play of being reunited. "I have a cold."

"Can I just say that you smell sick?" Arthur chuckled. "Should I be sleeping next to you or will you make me ill too?" Eames wrapped his arms tightly around Arthur's waist, crushing his lean frame against his own. Arthur laughed and squirmed. "I'm not going anywhere, babe."

"No-oh," Eames mumbled. "Don't leave me cause I'm sick." Arthur shifted contentedly against Eames's chest and settled into sleep. Eames's eyes were getting heavy again and he didn't want to resist the heavy blanket of sleep, not when his head was filled with cotton and he could honestly feel his heartbeat in his sinuses.

"I'd never leave you," Arthur whispered, letting Eames drift into a sweet, sweet sleep.

*

"I don't understand any of this," Arthur said that morning. Eames sighed, rolling his eyes and picking up his tea. He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing only his sleep pants and a headache from his cold. Arthur was already dressed and cooking, despite the fact it was Sunday and neither of them had anything to be doing. He flicked off the stove.

"It's Easter," he said. "Just eat the chocolate bunny and relax." Arthur lifted the already-full plate, scooping a final pancake off the stove and wandering over to Eames, grabbing the syrup from a cupboard on his way. "I realise we've not done Easter before, but what's to understand?"

"You said that Easter was Jesus's birthday," Arthur began. Eames accepted the plate of food.

"Thanks. No, Christmas is Jesus's birthday," Eames corrected. Arthur sighed, sitting across from Eames. He was wearing his favourite corduroys and a blue button-up over a black tee shirt. He looked really quite delicious and the tiny bit of flour on his nose only added to the effect. "Easter is when Jesus comes back to life after being killed by the Jews."

"What does lending things have to do with any of this, then?" Arthur demanded, pouring himself a glass of orange juice.

"Lending things?" Eames echoed, serving them both pancakes. He loved Arthur's pancakes and he'd gone and put macadamias in these ones.

"The forty day lending period," Arthur said. Eames couldn't help but laugh. "What?" Arthur snapped, picking up his cutlery and shaking his head at Eames. "You're the one who said that we lend forty days!"

"Lent," Eames laughed. "It's not a verb. Lent. It's the forty days before Easter that Jesus was in the desert."

"Why is Jesus going on adventures?" Arthur asked. "How was he killed by Jews if he was a Jew? And why am I eating a chocolate bunny if he came back to life today? How does that make sense?"

"It doesn't," Eames admitted, pouring syrup over his own food. He didn't know where the hell Arthur had found maple syrup in Mombasa. Maybe he's brought it with him from home; he knew Eames liked it and he was sweet like that. "You just eat the bunny."

"This is stupid," Arthur told him, taking the syrup from Eames. Arthur was smiling, quietly amused. Eames couldn't help but stare. "This makes less sense than I anticipated."

"How were you raised not knowing even little facts about Easter?" Arthur shrugged, sipping his juice. He had that embarrassed look he always got when he didn't know things he maybe should have. While Eames found it rather endearing, he also didn't want Arthur to feel like he'd missed something really important; he leaned too quickly to feeling inadequate, even now.

"How are things in LA?" Eames asked.

"Mal's pregnant again," Arthur said, immediately transitioning from embarrassed to happy. Eames grinned back, enjoying Arthur's easy smile as he talked about his family back home in Los Angeles. He ignored the light, subtle prodding of jealousy; did Arthur smile like this when he talked about Eames?


	20. Why Worry?

"I worry about you sometimes," Eames said. Arthur glanced over at his boyfriend, squinting against the afternoon sun. They were hiding out while Eames's latest job blew over. Mal and Cobb were getting ready for the birth of their second baby, giving Phillipa to her French grandparents for a few weeks while they went through the birth. Arthur had dropped her off in Bordeaux, been kissed and fed and housed by Mal's family for a few days before joining Eames in a small, nowhere town in Germany. Phillipa had cried when he left. He'd called to check up on her; she'd babbled her half-French/half-English at him, perfectly content. Kids were so resilient.

"You worry about me?" Arthur echoed. Eames nodded, hands tucked in his jeans, his green and pink shirt seeming strangely chic and European. He leant against the doorframe of the balcony, watching Arthur work at the tiny, rickety table with his newspapers and scrapbook. He'd picked up a correspondence job, tracking a few public figures for some dodgy people in Portugal. It paid well and he could do it from Eames's side. "Why?"

"You don't know how to stick up for yourself," he replied. Eames pushed off the door and Arthur admired how the shirt stretched across the broad, powerful muscles he liked so much. "If someone wanted to kidnap you, they would only have to ask politely for you to climb into the backseat. You wouldn't want to be rude so you'd hop in." Arthur frowned at Eames as he sat in the plastic chair across the table, resenting the overstatement. "Perhaps not," he admitted, receiving Arthur's non-verbal protest without looking. "But sometimes you let people take advantage for your good spirit." Arthur cocked a brow and Eames ignored him, pulling out a cigarette pack and fishing through it.

"Like whom?" Arthur prompted. Eames lit his cigarette, watching Arthur with his grey, strong gaze. He exhaled fresh smoke shortly.

"Like Cobb," Eames said unapologetically. "On a side note, why is there an envelope in the fridge?"

"Mal's been talking a lot about how to trick people into revealing secrets lately," Arthur said, scratching his ear. "She keeps asking me to let her set me up with some security." Arthur shrugged and Eames raised a curious brow. "I think she's just being protective again. I don't want to let her in, to set up the traditional gun-toting whatever. But, most people think to keep secrets in safes or something, right? That's where every extractor I've worked with has looked. If I see an envelope, my secrets, in the fridge long enough, I figure my subconscious will start hiding stuff there on its own. No one checks a fridge. I think it's brilliant." Eames blinked at him.

"It's kind of clever," Eames admitted. "Anyway. You don't like going under with sedation."

"It feels like I'll get trapped, that's all," Arthur said, clicking his pen shut and tossing it down. He leaned back, propping his feet on the balcony railing and pushing his wooden chair onto two hind legs. "We don't think there's a real danger. Lots of people use sedation; nothing bad has happened yet."

"But it makes you uncomfortable," Eames replied. Arthur shrugged. The orange sun really complimented Eames's colouring; he almost glowed in the light and the swirling smoke from his cigarette. He was almost using the smoke as a prop, pointing, carrying it delicately about the near-nonexistent breeze.

"So?" he fired right back.

"Cobb never thanks you for pushing your boundaries," Eames continued without looking at Arthur, profiled against the rare blue sky. August was almost over and eventually work would pull one of them from the rented apartment and away. He treasured small moments like this, even if they were being sharp. "He never asks you to do a job. He just tells you and expects you to show up."

"So?" Arthur repeated. "That's my job. To be there when he calls. You're always talking about expanding my horizons. How is this different?" Eames lifted the edge of one of Arthur's folders, peering curiously at Arthur's labelling system. He tapped the Sharpie triangle scrawled upon the top questioningly. "Organized chaos. Don't worry about it." Eames chuckled and scratched his ear, grinning at Arthur for a moment.

"I want to try new things, learn what I don't know," Eames went on after a while. "But I think bungee jumping is dangerous. I wouldn't do it because it makes me uncomfortable. I haven't had good luck with trusting rubber not to break. And if my boss expected me to, repeatedly, never asking and always telling, I'd be kind of put off."

"What, he's supposed to thank me for doing my job?" Arthur demanded. "Ask me pretty please?"

"Don't get defensive," Eames said. "I'm just pointing out that he's not always fair to you. You look nice today, by the way." Arthur looked down at his button up and vest, worn over a pair of old, dark jeans. He didn't see anything special about his outfit, and really he should be wearing a belt. He also wasn't wearing socks or shoes. He picked up a pen and clicked it open, leaning back to his work. Eames tossed his finished cigarette into empty air.

"Thank you. You've never liked Cobb," Arthur said, dismissing all of Eames's concerns. "This is just you worrying for nothing. It's not like he performs extractions on me or forces me to do anything at gunpoint." Eames blew him a kiss and Arthur scowled, swatting it away. "You're sappy and mawkish," he grumbled. Eames grinned and they both knew Arthur secretly liked being flirted with, even if Eames had already won him over.

"Mawkish?" Eames echoed.

"It means the same thing as sappy," he explained, turning the pages of his scrapbook. He'd have to send it off tomorrow; it was pretty much finished with all the public and private facts he could imagine his employers wanting or needing.

"Just say sappy, then," Eames said. "Arthur." He looked up at Eames, struck once again with the beautiful light Eames was caught in. "Nothing can change the fact that I do worry, and you don't always take care of yourself," Eames sighed, letting the subject drop. "You forgot to eat lunch today, for example."

"It's like one o'clock," Arthur said, frowning. "I could still eat lunch."

"It's four less a quarter," Eames said. Arthur's eyebrows raised, surprised. Eames stood heavily, moving back into the apartment. The wind shifted, making Arthur shiver as it slipped across his neck. "I went and got you food 'round noon but you never came inside to eat. So, yeah. I worry." Eames reentered their home; Arthur was alone.  

 *

 Arthur stared frustratedly at the server codes running on his screen, black and white, looping as his hacking failed against a firewall. If he couldn't access the hospital records, the job he was currently running would be considerably more complicated. If he couldn't steal them electronically, he'd have to physically steal them. That always took more planning and left more evidence. It wasn't something he looked forward to doing, nor something he planned to do. It was to risky to even be an option.

This should be easy. It should be something that took him five minutes. What was wrong with him today? He'd erased his CIA file twice before and he was stumbling over a hospital server? He couldn't possibly be having trouble with something so simple. He was supposed to be the best. But, he'd been stumbling a lot over the past few days. Arthur was working with an architect named Nash who was just so damned annoying. He hated working at the warehouse because Nash would be there, talking, which trapped him in his hotel or the tiny desk at work, tucked in an alcove one could barely call an office.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. His laptop cast a false, whitish blue light across the wall behind him, cut only by the dark, whispering scene on some CSI-like show playing absently in the hotel background. He tapped at his keyboard, cancelling all his access and mumbling curses at himself. He tossed his humming computer onto the chesterfield beside him, sighing heavily as he closed the lid. He was tired. Maybe he should call it quits, sleep off whatever bad spell he had going on today. Or the past few days, really. It couldn't last forever, he assured himself.

His phone buzzed as he made to get up and retire for the evening. It was loud against the coffee table, low-quality wood hard and stained badly. He scooped it up.

E calling…

He sighed again. He wasn't in the mood to talk to Eames. It had been ages since they'd had enough time to have a proper conversation and he didn't want their first conversation in a while to be one where all he felt like doing was dodge questions and yell at the world. He also couldn't just ignore him. He stared at the dark police detective who tucked his gun away, staring at something revealed in the beam of his flashlight.

"Hey," he said, trying to sound normal and chipper and failing. He stretched his left, phone-free arm up, trying to make his shoulder pop, stiff from working. He'd had it dislocated a few times as a teen and it bothered him sometimes. Eames would always tut at him when he rotated it like this and insist on rubbing it, even just a little. Just imagining Eames with him to take care of him helped his mood somewhat.

"Hey," Eames greeted. "You all right?" Arthur smiled at Eames's concern, staring at the fake, bloody scene on the TV, two handsome actors crouching and pointing at things with flashlight glows.

"Yeah," he replied after a second's delay. "Sorry. Long day. I'm working with this guy who… Ack." He shook his head. "Well, it doesn't matter. How are you?" he asked. The TV cut to a new scene, a loud, male laugh bursting through what was previously a quiet, dark scene. Arthur snatched up the remote at the loud intrusion expertly, clicking mute and shushing the TV aloud in his exhaustion.

"Who was that?" Eames asked. Arthur squinted at the TV, trying to remember anything about who the latino cop was and why he was laughing with the blonde chick. There was a skeleton on the table and he couldn't help but wonder how someone could laugh with a dead body right there.

"Uh," he said stupidly. He knew the name of the actor but couldn't draw it to mind. "No one," he said instead, not able to explain anything about the show. He hadn't been paying it any real attention. He clicked off the TV, leaving him in the dark. "I'm actually on my way to bed. What's up?" There was a moment of silence and Arthur lowered his phone for a second, glancing at the display to verify he hadn't been dropped. "Hello?"

"Should I leave you to it, then?" Eames asked. "I didn't really have anything important to say." Arthur shrugged, standing and flicking the TV off. He began over to the hotel bed, kicking off his shoes at the foot of the bed.

"I don't know," he murmured. "If everything's all right, then sure. I miss you," he added after a moment of quiet. "I'm hoping to come down to Mombasa when I finish up here." He could feel Eames nod across the line. "How are you?"

"Fine," Eames said. "Look, I don't want to keep you—" Arthur smiled, cutting Eames off.

"Keep me from what?" he chuckled. "I'm not doing anything right now. Free as a bird. Are you sure you're OK?" He pinched his phone between his shoulder and his ear, pulling his belt open. Eames nodded again, silent. "If you're sure."

"Yeah," Eames said, falsely bright. "It's all good, darling." Arthur nodded, taking the phone into hand again, frowning.

"I miss you," he said again.

"I know," Eames said, softly genuine. "But you're not alone there, are you?"

"Well, no, I'm working with a friend and another guy, but it's not the same," Arthur admitted. "I wish you were here. I'm not having a good week. You'd make it better."

"I'm sure," Eames murmured, voice quiet and soft. "I'll talk to you soon. When can I expect you in Mombasa?"

"Two weeks?" Arthur guessed.  
   
"See you then." Eames hung up. Arthur looked at the phone for a moment, concerned. It was probably nothing that Eames was being strange on the phone. Maybe they'd both had shit weeks. He knew Eames often gambled when he was alone. Gambled and drank. He wouldn't be surprised if he'd gotten into a small amount of trouble, hungover and poker-stupid. He debated calling back but decided against it. He didn't want to seem clingy, after all, especially since he'd spent all this time shirking a life-threatening commitment gesture.

Arthur tossed the phone down onto the mattress and wandered into the tiny bathroom, ready to shower and sleep.


	21. Is He?

Eames stared at his phone. That couldn't be right, he told himself. It just couldn't be right. The screen dimmed and then blacked but he kept staring. His microwave beeped at him but he was still stuck on the phone, unable to process something simple with his quick mind.

A very male laugh had sounded on Arthur's end. Arthur had shushed whoever was in his room.

Perhaps it was a colleague, he thought. Arthur had said he was working with a friend and another guy, after all. Maybe the friend had stayed over at his hotel late and they were chatting over life and the job. Arthur didn't make friends easily; Eames could not get jealous over one no matter how often he laughed in the background of Arthur's phone. He couldn't do that to Arthur.

But what else was he supposed to think? If it was just the friend, there was no reason for Arthur to pause and stumble before blurting that he was alone. He would have just said that his friend was there, working or socializing. It wasn't like Arthur to hold back information.

Arthur loves you, he reminded himself. He wouldn't cheat on you. He just wouldn't. Arthur was sweet, shy, caring... Sure, he was kind of cold sometimes but Eames knew that just made him human. He might be cutting on a job, presenting facts as facts and shooting people willy-nilly but he aimed to wound in reality when he could spare it. He wouldn't shoot to kill with Eames's heart.

Besides, he'd be in Mombasa in two weeks or so, with Eames. Things couldn't be that bad. They'd be together and Eames would see how ridiculous he was being. Arthur would make him orzo with cilantro, kiss his cheek good morning and refuse to let go of his hand, anonymous in the crowds of the aeroport.

*

Arthur made it to Mombasa in twelve days. They held hands in the airport as predicted. Arthur acted the same as he always did when Eames and he were together. Eames had expected Arthur to act like most men did when they had something to hide: skirting around questions about coworkers, the guilty looks, the sloppy subject changes. Arthur was fairly shit as pretending, at least to Eames's trained eye.

But nothing seemed to be wrong. Nothing had even changed. Arthur still knew his favorite foods and where he lived in the sprawling chaos of Mombasa. Arthur still pinned him to the wall when they got to the apartment after a dinner out, eager and wanting for Eames. Arthur still tasted sweet and fit perfectly in Eames's arms. He was still incredibly bendy and hot and he still drove Eames's crazy with that mouth of his. Eames kissed him almost hesitantly, unsure of where to place his affections. Arthur sighed quietly into his mouth, wrapping his arms about Eames's neck, pulling him close and suddenly nothing else mattered. They still tumbled to bed and moved in sync and, God, Eames couldn't imagine being without Arthur.

"You've still got your sad face on," Arthur murmured after a long period of silence. Eames's glanced over at him. Arthur had propped himself on an elbow and was watching Eames intently. "You're not allowed to have your sad face on after sex with your boyfriend when he's done all your favorite things," he complained. He poked Eames's leg with a toe from where he'd burrowed under the blankets. "You've been kind of quiet all day, babe. What's going on?"

"Nothing," Eames said hoarsely, reaching out to brush Arthur's hair back from his eyes. Nothing did seem to be going on. Arthur's hair was growing longish again and Eames couldn't stop playing with it. Arthur leaned into his touch, his dark eyes soft and warm. "I just missed you. You know." Arthur smiled, turning his head to nuzzle Eames's wrist in a way that should have been awkward but wasn't.

"Oh, I know," Arthur said. "You're sure you're all right?"

"Yeah," Eames insisted. "How did the job wrap up?" Arthur shrugged, scooting closer to Eames, cuddling under his arm and against his side. Eames tangled a hand in his hair and breathed in that scent that was cool, sharp, and all Arthur.

"All right," Arthur said. "I hated the architect we were stuck with." Eames chuckled, surprised. Arthur usually got along with pretty much everyone.

"Why?" he asked. Arthur huffed, frustrated, against Eames's broad chest, burrowing closer with a shiver. "How are you cold?" he demanded, pulling Arthur close.

"I don't even know, but I'm freezing," Arthur grumbled. "Nash was decent, I suppose, at his job. But he'd just always be around, talking and I just wanted him to do his work and shut the hell up," he admitted, sounding almost guilty for opposing this innocent architect so vehemently. "I don't know, Eames. He rubbed me the wrong way." Eames propped his cheek on Arthur's head, thinking in the silence.

"Can I ask you something?" he wondered, closing his eyes as fatigue drifted over him.

"That never leads to anything good," Arthur laughed, sounding equally sleep-hazy. "But you always can ask me anything; you know that."

"You said once that you wish you'd known what your parents would have thought of us," Eames began. "Have you ever tried asking their projections? If you remember them enough, it can be fairly accurate—"

"My parents were killed, Eames," Arthur said flatly. Eames winced. He hated the way Arthur always, always refused to soften those words with phrases like passed away or even are dead. "That's my reality. Dreaming can't change it. I lost them too young and it sucks but that's my life and I deal with it. Trying to find a loophole is cheating. It wouldn't really be them. It isn't real and at the end of the day, that's what matters." He kissed Eames's chest lightly, a mere brush of lips. "This is real. This matters. Sure, I would have wanted them to meet you, to know you, but they can't. I don't care that much because I get to have you either way." Eames's throat felt like a golf ball had lodged itself inside, biting with emotion. "I love you, you know, for some inexplicable reason."

"I resent that," he murmured lightly, catching Arthur's light, joking jab easily.

"Resent away," Arthur ordered. "But I wouldn't give you up for anything."

*

Arthur loaded his Glock 17C, waiting in the van with Cobb. Cobb twisted his wedding ring nervously, staring out the windshield at the bar across the street. The bar wasn't exactly rundown but it was the type Arthur used to hang out at to try and find someone to house him for the night in cold winters. He'd met Mackey at a bar not too different from this one. He knew married men like the one they were paid to observe frequented bars like this when they needed something more than their spouse's tender love. The wipers were off and the night rain had mostly stopped, leaving dots of wetness to scatter the orange streetlight across the glass. He shifted as he tucked his gun away.

"The gun is unnecessary," Cobb told him. Arthur shrugged. He had been on a job in Finland that had blown up in his face. The boss then had also told him it wasn't necessary to bring any arms. Arthur hadn't and everything went south on him quickly. Arthur didn't ever want to be caught off guard like that again. Even in the real world, he always had a gun on him now. Eames had noticed but hadn't pressed beyond a concerned brush of a hand against the concealed piece and a comforting brush of lips on his temple. He and Cobb fell back into a comfortable silence, waiting in the dark.

Mal had been sent into their dreamt bar to lure the mark into cheating on his wife. Mrs. Leone had long suspected a cheating husband but instead of confronting him, she had hired them to find proof. She was cowardly, in Arthur's opinion, to not simply confront her husband. He wouldn't have taken this job if Cobb hadn't wanted it; he was the best and didn't like such simple grab-and-go jobs used for quick cash. Arthur could have found everything out with a few days proper recon but the woman wanted the information from his mind and on the immediate. They literally had only the background she had provided them. It made Arthur nervous but realistically, the man was just a very well-off plastic surgeon. The chances of this job blowing up in their face were small. He wasn't involved in crime and didn't have any connections that could mean trouble. Besides, the Cobbs wanted the practice. They'd been studying and experimenting with various agencies for so long it almost felt like they'd forgotten how to really build and extract.

"How old were you when your parents died?" Cobb asked softly. Arthur looked over at him sharply, tearing his eyes from the entrance to the bar.

"Why?" he asked. He knew, realistically, that Cobb knew everything Mal did about him but it was still a surprise. Cobb shrugged and Arthur looked back at the entrance to the bar. "Thirteen."

"Where did you go after they died?" Cobb pressed. Arthur glanced at him again. The man was very much avoiding Arthur's curious gaze. He blinked, wondering what had brought on this wave of questions.

"I don't want to talk about it," Arthur admitted. "I don't mean anything by it. I have the upmost trust in you but I would prefer to not discuss it." He looked away and hoped that that be the end of it. Cobb nodded in his peripheral and Mal burst out of the bar, alone and against the plan, huffing angrily. Her breath clouded in the air as she crossed the street to their van quickly.

"We should have let Arthur poke around at the man's background," she snapped, climbing into the van in her heels. "I cannot make him prove anything." She yanked the door shut and leaned over the bench seat to mess with the heater, holding her husband's confused shoulder for balance.

"What happened?" Arthur asked, leaning away from Mal's cleavage, exposed in her little black dress. 

"He is gay," Mal sighed. She flopped against the back of the rear bench seat. "There are only men in that bar and he looks at their bottoms the way Eames looks at Arthur's." Arthur wasn't sure how he felt about Mal's standard for homosexuality being his boyfriend's leering. He probably shouldn't feel kind of proud.

"I'll go in," Arthur offered. He was already shifting in his seat, handing Cobb his gun and pulling his jacket off.

"We are not sending you into a bar!" Cobb sputtered. Arthur tossed his jacket away and Mal tutted, picking it off the seat and draping it nicely.

"We won't let you go in to seduce a man," Mal agreed. "That is not a part of the plan." Arthur shrugged out of his button down, leaving him in a tee shirt and his black corduroys. He felt almost out of practice, rubbing his hair nervously.

"What?" he demanded. "We sent Mal because she would be a woman on the side. If he's gay, I'm the one who fits the criteria best." He made to grab the door handle but Mal's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"You don't have to," Mal said firmly. "This is not a game."

"I know," he replied easily. "It's fine." She held his eyes with her own for a long moment before nodding at her husband. He nodded back and Arthur resisted the urge to shiver at how quickly their minds synced up. The two men exited the van and crossed the empty, dark street quickly.

"I'm going to follow you in," Cobb said. "Just in case. Why bring a gun into the dream at all if you're not taking it with you into action?" Arthur tugged the bar door open, trying to sink back into his old mindset, the one that never quite felt like him. The bar was loud, almost a club, swarmed with dancing men and drinks.

"I don't need a gun for this," Arthur replied. "This I'm good at."

He missed Cobb's almost-scandalized "Why?!" as he searched the bar for his target. He began over to the bar and Cobb followed him.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked, spinning to look at Cobb. The poor man looked rather uncomfortable in the slight crowd of grinding gay men, bass thrumming through the floorboards.

"Watching after you," Cobb said slowly, as if Arthur had missed the conversation and concern Mal expressed in the van. Arthur shook his head firmly.

"No," he said. "I won't get any with you tailing me and looking shifty. Go sit over there." he gestured vaguely at the opposite of the bar. "I'm fine." Cobb squinted and pursed his lips, but obeyed. Arthur pulled his hand through his hair once more, promising himself that he had someone watching out for him, and even if he didn't, Dr. Leone was not going to actually get the chance to sleep with him. Establish intent and get out had been drilled into Mal before hand.

Same rules applied.

Arthur sauntered up to the bar and Leone's boring, hazel eyes followed him. Arthur knew how to make men want to follow him with their eyes for days. Admittedly, it was something he didn't need to do consciously with Eames. He hadn't used the skill in a while. He slid onto the bar stool, bracing both elbows on the bar. Leone was facing him, turned inwards and Arthur reached out to squeeze at a slightly muscled arm. He had been spoiled by Eames's build and was now left unimpressed. He hummed appreciatively nonetheless.

"What's your name, baby?" Leone asked, grinning at him. Arthur traced an eye over the doctor's figure lazily.

"It's whatever you want it to be," he replied, voice low. He leaned in slightly, still running his hand up Leone's arm. Leone licked his bottom lip unconsciously. Those strange hazel eyes swept over him. Arthur realized why Leone's eyes bothered him; they held the same glint as Mackey's did when he was sober. Mackey kept Arthur on a short leash back when he worked for Velvet, even more so after Arthur's third escape attempt.

"How much?" Leone demanded. Arthur used to really like costumers who cut straight to the chase. No small talk because it became painfully clear that he had nothing to talk about other than copious amounts of weird sex with people he despised and didn't trust.  His clientele usually only had spouses and children to hide Arthur from. Arthur drew his hand away.

"Depends on what you're looking for," Arthur told him coyly. Leone shifted closer to him, sliding one leg to the floor and reaching out with an arm, across Arthur and gripping the bar, boxing him in. Arthur's heart pounded almost nervously and he realized Eames could probably tie him to this bar if it was on fire and he'd be unworried. Arthur tapped the wedding ring adorning the hand boxing him in. "You're married?" he asked, trying to prompt the man into outright stating whether he could cheat on his wife or if he'd forgotten himself in a dream. "I'm not used to being picked up by married men."

"I'm not used to whores with a moral compass," Leone fired back, placing his other hand on Arthur's neck, overly intimate, his grip harsher than Arthur would have liked as he pulled Arthur in close. Arthur stared at the ground, wincing and trying to pull away. "Pretty boys like you are used to fucking for money," he said sharply. "I'm certain I can sample the wares if you don't want to hire. You don't have a fucking problem, do you?" Leone tightened his grip and shook Arthur by the scruff of his neck, just enough to hurt.

"No," Arthur agreed, hating himself a little. He thought he'd learnt, with all the danger in dreams and his new life, to not become cowed by a sharp grip and a thinly veiled threat of sexual violence. Leone leaned in to kiss Arthur, tugging at Arthur's curls and forcing his head up. "Let me just go pay for my drinks—"

A slap met his cheek, a warning. "Listen, bitch," Leone began.

A gunshot fired behind him and Leone spun away, aimlessly tugging Arthur with him as he panicked. His male projections were scattering and Arthur slid off the bar stool and—

He opened his eyes, half his body hitting the floor and the other half perfectly still, waking in the same room as Cobb and Mal. His stomach roiled for a moment before the sensations, twinned as he woke, merged and he sunk into reality once more. The doctor's exam room was quiet, Mal asleep on the exam table, the doctor slumped on his chair against the counter. Arthur breathed, keeping his exterior calm. Cobb had just kicked him awake and he was frowning, concerned, as Arthur climbed to his feet and automatically checked the pulse and breathing of the sedated, sleeping doctor. Mal woke as Cobb tilted her awake.

"So?" she prompted. "Did everything go well? Did he take the bait?"

"He did," Arthur said quickly. "The sedative will wear off soon. We should go."

Arthur coiled the PASIV lines, avoiding Cobb's heavy gaze. He knew, when the job was over, the Cobbs would have questions. He didn't know how much Cobb had seen, if he had heard anything or if he'd put any of Arthur's past together. He hated having something to hide, but he hated the idea of Mal knowing what he used to do for a living even more. Some religious guy had been his cabbie once, back when he worked in Toronto and it was obvious what he did, and had asked him what his parents would have thought of him selling himself.

The question hadn't bothered him at the time; his parents were dead and he wasn't ready to think about all the things they'd never get to think about him and his life. Now that he had Mal, had Cobb, had Phillipa and James: it was like having a family all over. He didn't want to know what they would have thought of him selling himself.

For the first time, he understood what that cabbie had meant. He hated being ashamed.

He just didn't want them to know. If they found out, he didn't know how he could face them. How he could explain to Mal, so protective and loving and Catholic, that he'd done it to survive, nothing more. 


	22. Don't Forget

Arthur fumbled with his keys, clutching a bag of groceries to his chest with one arm, and pinching his Samsung to his ear with his opposite shoulder. Cobb must have filled Mal in on exactly what he'd seen in the bar. Mal had called him after only a day, despite kissing his cheek firmly after the job and promising to give him a few days to settle-in back in Toronto. He'd barely been at the house, landing late and sleeping late as well. The house had been empty of food and Mal called him on the streetcar. He was passing the Queensway on his way home from the St. Lawrence Market; her voice was worried and soft from his phone against the harsh crowds of Southern Ontario.

"You're so young, that is all, Arthur," she murmured.She was speaking English to him, a dead giveaway that Cobb was listening in the background. "My baby. What if things had gone further, if Dom hadn't seen and woken up to get you out?" He shrugged, adjusting his grip on the phone as he pulled the screen door open to unlock his backdoor. The door led to his kitchen, which he needed to repaint. When he and Eames had bought the house, the entire thing had been painted a remarkable green Arthur could only describe as "baby dinosaur", which had amused Eames to no end. Their bedroom was a tasteful, dark grey and the hallways followed a series of kind, warm earth tones Eames had picked out of some catalogue. He'd also picked this awful mustard-like thing Arthur hated but went along with for the kitchen. It was time to repaint, Arthur thought. A red could look really good with the light wood of the cupboards. The ground floor's bathroom was a baby blue; perhaps he could do a navy to match.

"Things would not have gone further than I'd have liked," Arthur assured her, not sure if he was lying. "I was in control when I was with him." He hadn't been. He hadn't found any indication that Leone was an angry man in the research they'd been given; he hadn't known what he was getting into. He hadn't known things would go the way they had, but he did know where that strain of conversation tended to lead.

"He was so rough with you!" Mal protested. "What if you'd been hurt?"

"He was not too rough with me. I'm fine," Arthur insisted. He swung his door open and found Eames across the kitchen, looking a bit nervous. "I've to go. I'll call soon, I promise," Arthur said quickly, lowering his phone and tossing it onto the counter with his keys. He beamed at Eames, thrilled to see him in their home in Toronto. He let the door slide shut behind him, shocked out of words.

"Hello," Eames murmured, crossing to Arthur. "Thought I heard you in the alley." He scooped the groceries from Arthur, tutting when Arthur protested. "I've got them, sweet. What was the call about?" He placed the bag on the far counter, digging through it.

"Work," he said simply. "I can't believe you're here!"

"Why shouldn't I be here?" Eames asked stiffly, pulling lunch meats out of the brown bag and tossing them in the tiny fridge. Arthur shook his head, still staring amazed at this surprise visitor.

"I'm happy you're here," Arthur promised softly. He scooped the jams from the bag as Eames tucked quinoa into the cupboard above the sink. The actions of unloading groceries felt so stupidly domestic and right that he grinned. Eames raised an eyebrow at him, moving back to the bag. He shrugged, unable to explain why the sight of Eames holding eggs made him happy. Eames smiled tightly and moved away. "I thought you were in India," he said, peering at Eames, who was pushing around things in the fridge to make room for the eggs and a tub of margarine.

"My extractor got himself arrested on Tuesday," Eames sighed. "Our whole operation was blown. His wife says she'll take care of it, so I turned around to come here. Figured we could spend December together, even if it's before our Christmas date."

"Of course," Arthur agreed warmly, folding the grocery bag and tucking it into the drawer of random crap. "How are you? Did the ID I made you work?" Eames nodded, smiling as he leaned into Arthur, arms circling his hips. "See, I've watched you make so many of those I could be a passable forger, at least in reality."

"You're already the best pointman and a good architect and extractor; stop stealing people's jobs, you freak," Eames said kindly, kissing his neck. "There's a price on your head in Finland, you know." Arthur groaned, holding Eames tightly.

"Our chemist thought they spoke Flemish there and fucked us all over," Arthur grumbled. "It was my fault; I should have known he was an idiot. That was ages ago, though. They still want me?"

"Not badly," Eames said. "Euros. Ten grand. Who was the chemist? I don't want to work with him if--"

"Oh, he's kind of in pieces across Andorra," Arthur replied. "Peter took care of it. I don't enjoy that type of clean up."

"Who were you on the phone with?" Eames asked again. Arthur sighed, hating the fact he had this past and history he was ashamed of. He knew Eames didn't judge him for it; he had his own scars and secrets. But he never wanted the Cobbs to know how he came to Eames, how he came to them, in a way. He buried his face in Eames's neck.

"Nothing," he said finally, not ready to have that conversation with Eames. His boyfriend was very pro-have-a-fucking-talk-about-it-already when it came to telling Mal and Cobb things, and when it came to being open about their relationship with just about anyone really. He didn't want to have that argument today, not when Eames had come home as a treat. They didn't agree on how to deal with traumas and it was sad that they both had so many that dealing was integral to their relationship, their being. He didn't, however, miss how Eames stiffened lightly.

 He wondered what he was doing wrong.

*

"I don't want to," Arthur said softly, looking down at his desk fiercely. He was tense beneath perfect posture and a crisp work shirt, baby blue against his black tie. Dom frowned at him, surprised. Arthur never refused him. He leaned back in his chair, the old joints squeaking lightly. Arthur brushed a nervous hand over his papers, wiping eraser bits from the surface.

"You don't want to come down with us?" Dom clarified. "We're so close to breaking the surface of the third level." Arthur nodded.

"I don't," he agreed. "I think there are better ways to figure it out and pouring the amount of sedatives required to make the second level stable enough can't be safe. I don't like it." Dom sighed, running a hand over his hair.

"If this is about the military reports we saw," he began, "you've seen how those baboons misuse the PASIV. Of course they're finding things that are unfavourable."

"Soldiers aren't waking up," Arthur interrupted, looking up, eyes sharp. "The best of the best, Cobb, not the trainees killing each other. The best and they don't wake up. The PASIV is barely assisting dreaming and when they wake up, hours, days later, they aren't themselves. Some aren't even lucid. Some don't wake up at all; they drift away while asleep. One killed herself. She thought she was still dreaming." Dom hadn't known.

"How do you know that?" he asked. Arthur didn't break his gaze. It was times like this that Dom wondered if Arthur was strong on his own merits or if the trauma of his youth had forced him to be a wall.

"It's my job to know," he snapped. "They're calling it Limbo and nine people have been lost, one way or another, in the past five months since we said we were going to try for three layers at the CIA dinner." Arthur sighed frustratedly, leaning back against his own chair, angry. "I told you announcing it was a bad idea. Other people are trying to beat us there now, but they haven't mastered the second level like we have."

"Announcing got us funding," Dom dismissed, waving away Arthur's concern with an unbothered hand. "The military--"

"Takes the same risks you do," Arthur finished for him. "They use the same drugs and make the same assumptions."

"There is no other way to reach the third level," Dom said.

"Wrong," Arthur replied. "You said that about the second level. The second level could be safely stabilized with research, a steady mind, training, just like we did the first level. We can stabilize it and go deeper. And we made it this far without these types of sedatives. They aren't safe." He looked away, breaking Dom's gaze to rub his forehead, frustrated. He looked so old. "I don't want to get trapped in that Limbo. I don't want to even risk it. I've got a life up here, Cobb. I've got Eames. He worries and I don't want him to worry."

"We won't drop into Limbo," Dom promised.

"Matt Driver tried to wake up only a fortnight ago," Arthur said. Dom heard the code for suicide with a saddened clarity only dreaming could offer. "He fell to Limbo from the second level and woke up after a decade dream time, he says. A decade, Cobb. He lost himself." Dom raised his eyebrows, surprised.

"I'm sorry," he offered. Matt was fairly close with Arthur, he knew. They worked together almost as often as Arthur visited Eames and when Dom had gone on a job with the two of them, they reminded him of the way he and his brother used to pass notes in Spanish class and share sarcastic smiles. Arthur shrugged, picking up his work, acting nonchalant. He swallowed heavily and Dom felt almost bad for pressuring the boy.

"His sister found him in time," Arthur murmured. "He'll live." Arthur didn't add that Matt would live, sure, but he'd live never knowing if his life was real. Cobb heard the warning all the same. Arthur shifted in his seat, crossing his legs at the knee.

"I don't want to go under to muck about with that type of a risk," he said firmly after a long time. "I don't think you or Mal should either. We can find a better way to go down. We always find the best way. We shouldn't risk ourselves for something that isn't even real."

"The dream is real while you're in it," Dom said. "Everything there feels real. The walls are just as solid." Arthur shrugged. "Arthur, there are whole new worlds down there. You are the youngest professional dreamer. The first of a new generation. Shouldn't you be first to the third level? Don't you want to discover what wonders can be achievable there?"

"Sure," he agreed, the type of agreement that meant absolutely nothing. "But it's not worth losing reality." He looked up at Dom, dark eyes sharp and unreadable. "You get caught up in discovering sometimes. You forget that you can get lost down there. You forget that you've got a pretty amazing reality to begin with. You forget the risks you choose to put on Mal and I."

"You watch your mouth," Dom ordered.

"It's just that—" Arthur tried.

"You watch it," he repeated shortly.

"Yes, sir," Arthur said softly, lowering his head once again.

"I don't forget," Dom said sharply after a moment. Arthur was tense once again, resting on eggshells. Mal would tell him not to snap at her boy if she were here, not home with the kids. It was his job as point, after all, to be critical. Nonetheless, Arthur was out of line. Dimly, Cobb knew he should be wondering why the boy was so easy to cow with just a sharp word or raised voice; it certainly wasn't normal for a twenty one year old. "I don't take risks that put my wife in danger." The mere idea of it felt like something that could destroy him.

"I should have known better," Arthur amended. "I'm sorry."

"You're dismissed," Dom corrected. Arthur snapped his head up, surprise flashing on his face, open, for a moment before that cool mask fell down, closing him off. "Call it a day, kid," he said, softening the dismissal with an endearment. Arthur nodded, nonetheless tense as he scurried about and closed his things for the night. He had slid on his jacket before he summoned up the courage to look at Dom again. "Good night, Arthur."

"Good night, Cobb," he replied. The door swung shut and Dom sat in the office, thinking, until the motion-timed lights dimmed. So much seemed to dim when he was alone.

*

Eames had barely shut the door behind him when Arthur practically tackled him, arms tight around his neck. He let out an oof, stumbling back a moment, shocked. It took him a moment to remember to lock his arms around the shaking pile of boyfriend in his arms. He stroked through Arthur's hair gently, kissing his ear instinctually. Arthur was shaking, trembling within one of Eames's hoodies. The seams drowned about Arthur's smaller frame almost comically.

"Oh, fuck," he realized after a moment. "The thunderstorm earlier. You were alone." Arthur nodded, shaking like a leaf in Eames's arms, holding him so damn tightly. Eames almost felt like Arthur was trying to burrow into him, to truly hide from whatever it was that scared him so about nights like this.

"Come on," he urged after a moment, peeling Arthur from him to strip off his own jacket and drop his keys. Arthur wrapped his own arms around himself as Eames kicked off his shoes, dropping his keys in a pocket and hanging his jacket. Eames imagined the shaking was trying to break Arthur apart, shatter him, only his own arms holding him in one piece.

His boyfriend's hair fell lankly into his eyes, loose, framing a pale, pale face. Eames had noticed that his nightmares had been particularly bad in the past few weeks and it seemed the stress was catching up to him. His dark eyes were mirrored by dark, tired smudges beneath them. One didn't need to be a forger to see that he wasn't alright, that he was hiding his fear with limited, ranged success.

"I used to do this alone," Arthur whispered, voice hoarse. "I used to wake up from nightmares and not reach for anyone. I used to be OK alone." Eames didn't move, listening to the shaky, deep voice that resonated in much more than his ears. "When did I stop being able to do this alone?"

"I don't know," Eames murmured.

"Why can't I do it alone anymore?" Arthur begged, his breath faltering. Eames recognized signs of a breakdown and wanted so, so badly to head it off. He gathered Arthur into his arms again, shoving aside the doubts and worries that had been plaguing him. "Come on," he repeated, pulling Arthur to the couch.

He settled the younger man on the couch, pulling an old, knit blanket over him easily. Arthur patted the couch in front of him, pressing against the back cushions and Eames laid down obediently. Arthur pressed against his back fervently, draping an arm around him and crawling close, too close to logically be comfortable. Eames didn't dare move, warm and dry and honestly feeling rather safe within Arthur's hold. Arthur fell asleep slowly, his shaking ebbing away as Eames timed their breathing to keep Arthur calm, holding a cold hand against his diaphragm and squeezing sharply in warning whenever Arthur's breath turned panicky as the storm raised back into life. He did drift off, making small, distressed noises into Eames's ear and fidgeting constantly, breath warm on Eames's neck. Eames was almost asleep as well when a harsh buzzing jerked him awake.

Arthur's phone lit up upon the table. Eames grabbed it, making sure Arthur neither woke from the noise nor needed to go into work. He and the Cobbs were working on some big breakthrough. Something Arthur was both skeptical and unwilling to complain about. He was in no shape to go and dream, especially since he stubbornly didn't want to explain his origins to Mal and Cobb.

_Matt: What happened to you tonight? We were supposed to meet up._

Eames shut the phone, placing it back on the coffee table. Unease settled into his stomach, acidic and almost tangible taste on his tongue.

Eames let his anxiousness dissolve into anger. How could Arthur do this? How could he act so fucking casual all the time and then talk about needing Eames while mucking about with some guy on the side? The signs had been there: the man in his room, the questionable phone calls, the dartingly avoided questions. If Arthur could blow this Matt character off so easily, who's to say those nights he stayed away from Eames to work weren't nights staying at another's side?

Arthur had a childhood of aiding adultery, consensual or not. How could Eames even trust that Arthur knew it was wrong? He hadn't known when he'd met Eames that the way he lived was a bit twisted, or perhaps he'd just forgotten. Had he forgotten to be faithful as well?


	23. Gone

"Babe?" Arthur called, tossing his keys on the counter. The house didn't reply with more than his echo. Maybe Eames was on the third floor, meddling in his makeshift workshop. If the stairwell door was shut, he couldn't hear Arthur from the main floor. It didn't stop him from calling again. "Eames!" he crossed through the kitchen and began to mount the stairs to the second level. "Eames, you need to be ready for when I finish changing," he called up into the third level, pulling open the door to a narrow stairwell. "We have dinner at eight. Thai Elephant, like you wanted." No reply filtered down. "Are you asleep?" he wondered aloud, wandering into their bedroom and noting the empty bed, neatly made. That was strange. "Eames!" he called again, turning to check their bathroom, pulling off his tie—

He froze when he saw their closet. It was small, especially for a rather spacious house, but something was horribly wrong with it. Disastrously wrong. Cataclysmically wrong. Other, bigger wrongs he couldn't fathom, except there they were, in their closet. He crossed the room quickly, touching the back of the closet and confirming that, yes, in fact, Eames's half of the closet was empty.

It felt like a fucking opossum was sitting on his chest, or someone had placed a large microwave there. He was having trouble breathing. He spun, hurrying to the dresser and yanking one of Eames's drawers open. It came right off the runners in his rush to pull it out, empty and much lighter than he'd been expecting. He tugged gently at the others and they all rolled open, showing him nothing but blank wood and the nicks in the stain from Eames's belt buckles, tossed in again and again. He stared down at the completely empty, abandoned drawer in his hand. He dropped it, listless, not able to process simple information with his usually quick mind. Eames never took his silk pyjamas with him when he left the Toronto house, just like the leather jacket never left Germany and his fancy housecoat never left Mombasa. The silver lighter Arthur had gotten him for his birthday their second year together never left his pocket, but the pyjamas were gone and the lighter was there on the dark, cherry dresser, right fucking there. He never left the lighter and he never took the silk.

Eames had left him.

Arthur couldn't fucking breathe; he could not think or breathe or see. His vision had gone strangely blurry and he blinked to try and see the dresser clearly. He didn't realise he was backing up and away from the horridness of it all until he hit the wall by the door, sinking down, down, down and right onto the floor. He sat there, drawing his knees to his chest, oddly terrified at the idea. Eames had left. Arthur knew that when Eames made decisions, he stuck to them. If he was gone, he was gone. This wasn't the calm before a storm or a lead up to a fight. He had taken his things, all of them, not leaving the signs of life he usually left. Even when Eames had left him after that one violent fight, he hadn't taken his things. Arthur had known he could be convinced to come back, even if he was afraid that for one reason or another, Eames wouldn't. This was a deep, dying breath of the relationship Arthur had been pouring everything into. He never thought that this wouldn't last. He never imagined being alone after Eames, not even back when he wasn't in love with the bastard.

Eames had been acting distant, strange. Arthur should have known. Eames had started picking fights about stupid things, accusing Arthur of hiding things but refusing to tell Arthur what he was doing wrong. It seemed so obvious now. Eames had given up on him; Arthur wasn't good enough after all. He'd tried so hard to be more than the seventeen-year-old whore he was when they met, to be someone worthy of Eames's love and faith and trust, to be someone to believe in. He had tried. He had tried so fucking hard and failed. Eames had left.

A drop of water touched his hand and he couldn't tell, for a moment, if he was crying. He supposed he was indoors so it couldn't be rain. How he wanted it to be rain, for this to be impossible, for this to be a dream. He pulled his die out of his pocket. Eames had made this die, and almost gotten himself killed in Vegas using this die. The bumps on the six were unevenly spaced, just slight enough for Arthur to recognize it, and the white paint greyed from Arthur's use.

He rolled a four.

He'd been using the die as a totem ever since he'd gotten Eames back from Vegas, and Arthur had never wanted his strong, accurate sense of reality to be wrong so badly. He wanted to wake up to find nothing had changed, that Eames was about to make them late for their anniversary dinner, that he'd cuddle up against Eames on the streetcar and Eames would smell like home. He wanted to wake up and be OK, wake up, wake up, wake up.

But he'd rolled a four.

Everything had changed. Everything was real. He knew that with the absence of Eames's shoes from the hall, his jacket from the banister, his mess from the kitchen, his warmth in the home. Arthur's face was wet, his eyes were blurry, he was slumped by a wall and his tie was half-undone.

Fuck.

He couldn't breathe.

 * 

"Hey, Eames," Nick called. Eames looked over at his black colleague, shorter than he and less bulky as well. The man kept a gun on him at all times and Eames knew he could make up for his small stature with his accuracy with the gun he carried in a shoulder holster. Their office was small, stuffy and crowded with unnecessary dental equipment. The building used to house a dental chain called "Grinning Pearls" or something awful like that. They had been using it as a base in Chicago for the past few weeks. "You've worked with the Kid, right?" Eames chuckled. "You know. Arthur the Kid," Nick clarified helpfully.

"Arthur the Kid?" he echoed bitterly, tossing his pen down next to the pad he'd been doodling his forge's hands absently on. "Is this a Western? Is the US Calvary going to come bursting through the wall with Steve McQueen? We're British so we're probably the bad guys." Nick frowned at him, perched on a blue, pleather dental chair.

"It's what he's known as," Nick pointed out, fiddling with his iPhone. "I'm not being silly. Ask anyone who the Kid is; they'll tell you. Arthur from Toronto." Eames leaned back in his chair. He was waiting for the ink to dry on one of his passports for this job. He wasn't sure if he was making the right alias; the research he had to use was kind of shit. He'd spoiled himself for five years with the best, with Arthur, and now it was done and he had to go back to people who couldn't hack into the FBI in a fistful of minutes.

"That's so badass," Eames said absently. "Wish I had a cool nickname." Nick rolled his eyes at him. "What, like you don't? You're not cool enough to be a Kid. Like Butch Cassidy. The Sundance Kid. You'll never get a nickname." Nick blinked twice.

"Anyways," he continued blithely. "You've worked with him. Reckon he's militarized?"

"Dunno," Eames lied. "He doesn't, however," he continued truthfully, "allow people into his subconscious often and his projections don't have much of a leash. It wouldn't be hard to believe he's got good protections. Why?"

"Joe Kelsey wants to run a job on him for Globals," Nick replied, tilting his iPhone screen. Eames suspected the man was playing a video game at work again. "But he's the best, so I'm anxious. I mean, he found the second level of dreaming. Marcus can't figure it out even now and Arthur's halfway to the third."

"Just cause he's good at research doesn't necessarily make him a threat," Eames pointed out. Nick nodded.

"Remember that old guy, Michael Jerrison? The one no one knows where he is now?" Eames nodded. "Word is Arthur took care of the last guy who tried to pull a job on him, if you know what I'm saying." Eames knew what Nick meant, but he hadn't known that Arthur had had an extraction attempted on him. He knew Arthur carried a gun full time, had started suddenly and without saying anything, and wondered if that was why. "He apparently killed a couple of high-end goons in Vegas a few years ago for trying to take in one of his colleagues too. And Curtis ended up in pieces in Europe for almost getting the Kid and his team killed."

"Curtis was an idiot," Eames put in, only to be ignored.

Nick continued, with the enthusiasm of a small child with a comic book, "Peter Claire can barely get time with him. The Peter Claire. He's good enough he can blow off Claire. Arthur's fucking dangerous, man. He was there in LA when Cobb Research & Development was shut down and they put out a warrant for Dom Cobb. Arthur worked with him for ages and he's pretty tight with a couple CIA bigwigs. How does someone in our business get protection from the CIA without knowing some shit, eh?" Eames had no doubt the CIA wanted Cobb for one bogus reason or another, but it certainly didn't look good that Arthur had been so close to whatever that situation was and came out without a watch on him too. Maybe Arthur had bought his freedom; it had been four months since they'd spoken. How would he know?

"Maybe he's a spy," Eames offered unhelpfully. "Would explain Cobb's sudden switch to the dark side and the way the Feds pawed at the R&D."

"I just want to see if I could even get within six feet of that brain," Nick sighed. He tucked his phone away with a curse. "I'll bet he knows wonderful shit. He doesn't get to be the best for nothing." Eames nodded absently, just dimly amazed at the whispered reputation Arthur had built for himself. He had done really well. His ex-pat buddy Marcus used to be the go-to-guy for information; Arthur was far more coveted nowadays, and for far more in the way of coin. Even back before they were together, when they were an item, and before everything had fallen to shit, Eames had always been rather amazed at how good Arthur was at compiling information. He rose to every challenge like it had personally insulted him and raised everyone's expectations.

"Think I should try and do a job on him?" Nick wondered.

"Go for it," Eames said blankly. He didn't care what Nick tried to do to Arthur. Without a barrel of luck and a determined crew, Nick wouldn't manage to get into Arthur's trash, let alone the apartment in LA or the house in Toronto. Besides, he didn't care what Arthur knew or what it cost him to have others know. He didn't. Really.

*

"Arthur?" Phillipa called as he shut the door. He leaned back in the room, hoping she wasn't about to ask after Maman again. Her little dark eyes peeked out from her blonde bangs, big and brown, and she looked so much like her mother. Mal had been dead almost a month now. She and James had been asking for her so much more after Cobb took off nearly a fortnight ago. Arthur just didn't know what to do or say anymore. He'd never have the right answers or be enough for the kids.

"Yeah, Pippa?" he asked.

"Is Daddy coming home?" she asked. He sighed. He left the door open and wandered back into her room, scratching his ear as he sat down. "Because he's been gone a long time," she told him firmly as he sat on the edge of her tiny bed. She was the smartest, most mature child in the world, he was sadly certain.

"I know," he said.

"Well, is he?" she asked. Why did you leave, Cobb? Arthur asked himself, hating the man just a little. He'd panicked and ran. Innocent men didn't run; even Arthur's contacts at the CIA and FBI had their hands tied now. He couldn't help Cobb anymore, not if he was running and avoiding the questions. Arthur loved the kids, he did, but he couldn't be their daddy, couldn't replace Cobb and he was certain they didn't want him to. He just didn't know how they'd ever get to have their daddy again.

"I hope so," he finally settled on. Phillipa didn't look convinced. Her dark eyes frowned up at him, skeptical.

"Can I tell you a secret?" She lowered her head, peering up under her bangs as if that hid anything. He loved how transparent and innocent kids were. He wondered why adults constructed masks the way they did, why innocent, open kids began to hide things from themselves and others.

"Always. You know that," he said. She nodded, sitting up against the headboard. "What's up?"

"I don't know if I want Daddy to come back," she confessed. Arthur frowned, confused. He would never have anticipated that.

"Why?" She shrugged at him, embarrassed.

"Promise you won't get mad?"

"Sure," he agreed. She lifted her pinky finger seriously and he hooked hers with his. "Pinky promise," he vowed sombrely. She released him and fiddled with her blanket nervously.

"He made Maman sad," she said in her smooth French, switching as she twisted the quilt her grandemere had made. "And then Maman went away."

"It wasn't Daddy's fault that Maman got sad," Arthur told her. "And sometimes people just go away, Pippa. It isn't anybody's fault." She nodded again, bangs brushing against her eyelashes.

"I don't think he meant to," said Phillipa to her knees, looking down again. Her tiny fingers twisted the edge of her pink comforter. "But she'd be happy and be playing with us and then she'd be angry at Daddy and then she'd be sad. And then he left too."

"He didn't want to leave you," Arthur assured her. "He's trying to come home."

"But he did leave," she said. He didn't know what to say to her to make it better. He only hoped she'd forgive her father one day; He hoped they both could.

"He's your dad," he said uselessly. "He loves you. He'll come back."

"I know," she agreed. "But I don't know if I want him to super a lot. Maman took care of us and he made her sad. Now you take care of us and when he comes back, what if he makes you sad? I don't want you to leave too!"

"I'm not leaving, Phillipa," Arthur said firmly, taking her tiny hand in his own. "I'll always be here."

"Did you make your mommy sad?" she asked. He frowned again.

"What?" he said, confused.

"I mean, Daddy had Maman, and he made her sad. Who do you have? Do you make them sad?" she asked. He blinked, a bit thrown. He didn't know how to explain to Phillipa that he currently didn't have a significant other, that not everyone got to have Prince Charming forever. He didn't want her, in a time where her parents had just left, to know that his fairy tale romance had left too. There was too much leaving going on.

"I have you guys," he finished lamely. He supposed it was true. She and her brother were the only people who he did have, at the moment. When Eames left, he had come back to LA, away from the first home they'd bought together. He had come back to LA with plans for how to stabilise the second level to support a third.  He'd been horrified to find Mal and Cobb the same type of distant his friend Matt had been after he'd fallen to limbo. Mal was drifting and Cobb was staring at her, peeling her away from kitchen knives and arguing with her in front of the children. Arthur asked if they'd gotten trapped in limbo, and Cobb lied and said no.

"Oh. Do we make you sad?" she wondered. He cupped the back of her head and kissed her forehead gently.

"No, Pippa. No, you two make me very happy," he promised. She wrapped her tiny arms around him and he held her in a tight hug. He understood her worries. Part of him didn't look forward to no longer being her choice to tell secrets to, didn't look forward to stepping down from that spot. As much as he wanted, wished, with all his heart, for Cobb to come home and Mal to be here, he didn't want to give Cobb back his children.

It was selfish and awful, maybe even a bit petty, but Cobb fucking left these kids, right after their mother killed herself. He'd abandoned them and Arthur knew what it was like to be an orphan.

Phillipa pulled away and settled against her pillows. Arthur left her, light night on, to sleep. He wandered down the hall to the guest room he'd been living in since Cobb left. Sometimes, he thought, settling against the thin pillows and staring at the French grey and American blue of the walls, he felt like he'd been living in more than an empty shell of a bedroom since Mal had died and Cobb had left.

He had built a whole new life for himself, one with a boyfriend and a family and a job. He still had the kids, and eventually, Cobb might be able to come home and Arthur could work again. But it sure felt like he had lost everything again. It sure felt like he had nothing.

*

Rain made the most peculiar sound against skylights. Almost like music but somehow not quite. The type of noise that could be soothing or annoying, crossing over the two genres easily. The background noise of Parisian couples cuddled against the drizzle in the heat of the café blended away into nothing as well, mixing with the rain. It was all white noise.

"I'm so glad you made time to see me," Arthur said, sitting across from Eames in the tearoom, smiling softly. Arthur removed his hat, balancing it on a knee politely. He was in a three-piece, pinstripe suit. His pinkish tie offset the navy suit surprisingly well. His fedora's rim was damp from the drizzle of Paris, fading in and out like their speaking terms had over the past months. His dapper bearing didn't hide his youth, nor his nervousness.  "How's…" he trailed off slightly as Eames didn't return or encourage his hopeful smile. "Things?" he finished lamely. He twisted his fingers, clasped on the table, lightly, the gesture familiar from days when Arthur was a new thing in Eames's life, afraid and mistrusting.

"Weather's kind of shit here," Eames said quietly, fiddling with his fork idly, staring at the white paper placemat. "Work's good. Busier than usual." Arthur sighed, looking away as well. Silence rang, incredibly heavy against Eames's eardrums. Someone entered the café, the bell on the door chiming loudly and cutting into the blanket of awkward.

"Is this what we've come to?" Arthur asked angrily. "It's been fucking ages and we're… small talking? About work and the weather? Should I be asking after the family?" Arthur pressed himself against the hard backing of his chair, looking so hurt that Eames almost felt bad. He swept his keen eye over Arthur's figure; he seemed to have lost weight, stressed and Eames wondered, absently, if everything else was all right.

"Family's fine," Eames offered sarcastically after a moment or two. Arthur nodded and forced a smile. The server placed two cups of tea upon the small table and Arthur thanked the woman with the same tight smile. Eames sipped loudly. "The Cobbs are swell, I imagine?"

"No." He snapped his head up and Arthur shrugged, plainly honest like always. "It's complicated," Arthur replied. Eames frowned, almost curious. "Mal's dead."

"Fuck," he whispered after a moment. Arthur nodded, looking away. In profile, he seemed too thin and wrought, dark smudges under his eyes that couldn't be merely from dreaming. Eames almost wanted to hug him, comfort him through the death of his second mother. "When?"

"Four months ago," he replied blankly. "I called you to try and… It's over now. I don't even want to get into it. It's complicated and Cobb can't go home so we're doing this job…" He sighed again. "Look, Eames, whatever I did to make you leave, I'm sorry. I'm swallowing my pride here and I just… I want you back. I'll do about anything to get you to see that. I'm so sorry for whatever I did; whatever I said, I didn't mean it. I want to know what happened between us. I came home one day and you were gone. Just gone."

"You know what you did," Eames practically snarled, slamming his tea down. Arthur jumped slightly. "Don't act like you're innocent here." Arthur looked down at his hands, shoulders tense and small.

"I don't know what I did," Arthur said softly. "Maybe I'm not innocent but I don't know what I did. I came home one day and you were gone," he repeated. "It sounds like this is nothing new and that it hasn't been for a while," he hedged when Eames didn't reply. "It was almost impressive how you could just up and leave. I'm not saying there wasn't anything wrong, I just..." He trailed off, twisting his fingers. "I guess I didn't think you could just tire of me. I don't want to let this get away, Eames."

The rain pounded down harder, leaving behind the faint tinkles for a steady thrum on the windows and skylight. Eames refused to meet Arthur's eye, not when he was being so fucking thick. Eventually Arthur looked away, defeated. It didn't feel like the triumph it should have. "I'm sorry," Arthur whispered after a long time. "Maybe I should just go."

"Who was it?" Eames asked, almost curious. He remembered hearing the masculine laugh cutting across a phone line, the vague answers, the half-heard phone calls. He wanted to know who Arthur had chosen when he'd decided Eames wasn't enough. He wanted to know if it was someone he knew, if it was sex or love. Arthur looked up at him, frowning confusedly.

"Who was who?"

"Stop playing around," Eames ordered sharply. "You had an affair. You owe it to me to 'fess up, after—"

"What?" Arthur cut in, brows rising dangerously. "What did you just say?" Eames almost faltered; Arthur's voice was sharp and edged like glass, cutting through the sheet of Eames's anger. He grasped at the seams of it, remembering all the hurt and refusing to be cowed that easily.

"You were cheating," Eames said. Arthur leaned back in his chair again, sipping his tea slowly as he glared. He lowered his cup, face hard and fingers tight. A sinking feeling settled in Eames's stomach, coating his diaphragm in acid, anxious. He released the metaphorical seams, grasping for something new and far away. "You weren't?" he guessed finally, frozen under Arthur's glare. He felt their roles reverse almost physically, world spinning, Arthur wronged and he the culprit.

"No, you fucking asshole," Arthur snapped. "No. How could you think that?" Eames floundered, wishing he could backtrack. "Why would you think that?" His dark eyes flashed dangerously.

"You'd been acting so strange," he offered, looking down. "What else was I supposed to think? Especially given your history—" His eyes snapped up to Arthur, noting how offended, and rightly, he looked. Arthur brushed his hair back with a shaky hand; Eames read anger, not nerves. "I—That's not what I meant," he tried.

"I know what you meant," Arthur said simply.

"You left me because you thought I was cheating on you," Arthur clarified after the heaviest silence yet. Eames shrugged helplessly. "Do you have any idea how much you hurt me when you took off? You were my everything. How were you willing to throw it all away without even asking me if it was true?" Eames shrugged again. He couldn't find any words; his mind was literally blank. He'd never seen Arthur look so angry, not in the biggest of their fights. "You told me once that you trusted me. You said you'd trust me with your life. I worked really hard to trust you back. Do you understand how hard that was for me? Especially given my history?" he echoed bitterly. Eames floundered. "But I did it. I struggled to do it, but I did. I trusted you." He added softly after a moment, "I trusted you to trust me."

Eames remembered that night. He remembered telling Arthur he'd jump, literally blind, if Arthur was sure he'd make it. He had been so sure of it then, that he'd jump, and he'd meant every word. How did he forget that feeling? How did he lose it? "Arthur," he murmured.

"You left without asking me if it was true," Arthur murmured, looking kind of broken. Eames remembered sharply the look on his father's face when his mother had left and hated seeing that hurt, that shatter of heartbreak, on Arthur's face. "Like a coward. Did you not realise that you were destroying me, us, everything? Did you not care? Did you even try to?"

 "I just…" Eames began, trailing off. Arthur looked down at the table and visibly gathering his thoughts.

"Even before you left," Arthur continued, "you didn't try. You don't even try. I can't do this alone anymore, Eames. So I need to know. Are you going to try harder?" Arthur asked, his angry voice fading into something soft, something gentle and tangible, and so, so much worse. Anger Eames could handle. Anger he even maybe deserved. This panicked him, rendered him incapable of speech. He blinked heavily, still blindsided by this new revelation and their lost time.

Arthur sighed. He pulled his wallet out, tossing euros onto the table. He swept his hat onto his head and stood.

"Arthur," Eames tried, coming to his senses a moment too late. "Arthur!" He leapt to his feet and Arthur shook his head sadly.

"Goodbye, Mr Eames," he said coolly. A bell chimed as he pulled the door to the tearoom open, leaving Eames alone. He sank into his seat as Arthur made his way through the rain. He'd never have guessed he'd want to reconcile things with Arthur. He would never have guessed that he'd be too late.  



	24. Tuesday

  
"Look, I know how much you want to go home," Arthur murmured, picking at the salad in front of him. He was unnecessarily bothered by its fanciness; he was supposed to be eating shitty airline food on his way back to LA, not flying private to Paris and missing Phillipa's spelling test. He had promised he would be back to help her study big words like basketball. He had promised James he'd be back in fourteen sleeps. James had said fourteen was a big number and he had promised it wouldn't be a day longer. Nash had ruined the job and Cobb had ruined Arthur's chance at keeping his promise to Pippa. He couldn't go home now; bailing on Cobb's deal with Saito was too dangerous.

"This can't be done." He would have to call Phillipa and James the second he landed and, fuck, he was becoming just like Cobb, leaving and abandoning the kids. He just wanted to go home.

"Yes, it can," Cobb disagreed quietly.

"You don't know that," Arthur begged. If they failed, who was to say Saito wouldn't throw them to the COBOL sharks like he had thrown Nash? Who was to say he wouldn't take care of them himself, shoot them dead in the warehouse he had provided? Who would go home to the kids then? Arthur could see Cobb's desperation and confusion and all he could think was that he knew what it was like to be an orphan.

"I've done it before," Cobb said firmly. Arthur stared at him, wishing he could just be trusted. He hated this runabout, this stupid game of guess what.

"Who'd you do it to?" he asked. Cobb stared at him with his old eyes before looking away. Arthur shook his head, stabbing a leaf of organic romaine lettuce and hating the stupid vegetable. Limbo had changed Cobb, whether he would admit going there or not. It had taken away his friend and boss and left a sad old man in his place. "Why are we going to Paris?" he pressed. Cobb shifted uncomfortably.

"We're gonna need a new architect," he said. Arthur stared at him. Before Limbo, they had never once used an external architect. Cobb and Mal built together, sometimes to Arthur's job-specific requisites. They designed mazes complex in simplicity and brutal in paradox. They had been masters. The CIA had probably one hundred training exercises designed by Cobb R&D, ranging from basic to special training. All the special forces and black ops designs had been designed and tested with Arthur at their sides, tweaking flaws and learning buckets of theory from Mal. None of the trainings, Arthur noted bitterly, had contained high levels of sedatives when he had been designing them. He had tried to stress the dangers of sedation before they even knew what limbo was, that it even existed. Two dozen soldiers, now, of varying rank had committed suicide after continuing to dream after the PASIV had shut down.

He had tried warning the Cobbs even more fiercely than he had warned the military, the CIA, Matt. He had tried to keep them safe and happy and they had left him too. Cobb was falling apart and a projection of Mal kept popping up. Arthur didn't know how much longer he could take it, seeing Mal trying to hurt him. He didn't know if he could watch her hurt the job and Cobb's chances at going home. He knew, logically, that it wasn't Mal, it was Cobb's subconscious hurting him, but all the same it drove him nearly insane. The first time it happened, he'd woken up and vomited, barely making it to the hotel room's toilet. He had never had such a visceral reaction to a lucid dream before. His stomach, stabbed three times with Mal's shank, had left bloody stains on her lovely dress as she left him to bleed out in an heiress's ballroom. He'd had phantom pains for hours afterward and Cobb wouldn't look him in the eye for days.

Now, Cobb avoided building like the plague. Mal showed up more and more often; she had appeared once in a training session. Cobb didn't check the layouts like an extractor was meant to and that job, like so many others, had fallen to Arthur. He made sure Cobb fed himself, made sure that Mal's mother, Caroline, had enough money in her accounts in LA to take care of the kids when Cobb dragged him away. He tucked James in at night and replaced the bulb of Phillipa's nightlight. He checked layouts and plans for dreams. He taught the kids to tie their shoes and James was riding a two wheeler now. He contacted architects to work under Cobb and he vetted employers.

He didn't talk to Cobb about Mal.

 It felt like he was doing more and more for Cobb these days. Arthur was holding onto him so tight, but he could still feel Cobb drifting further away. He had tried to hold onto Mal, to keep her grounded and alive. But now it seemed like no matter what he tried, somehow it would only be a matter of time before Cobb slipped away too.

*

"I don't understand why you're hesitant about hiring him," Dom said, tucking a shirt into his bag. Arthur was leaning against the back of the couch, staring out the expansive window at the landscape and skyline of Paris. "He's the best, is he not?" Arthur didn't reply for a moment. Dom paused in his packing, confused. It wasn't like Arthur not to answer him right away. He frowned, wondering what Arthur was staring at. The city was dark but for the bright snake of the Seine cutting through the streets.

"He is the best," Arthur agreed.

"Then what's the issue?" he asked. "I thought you'd like to work with him. He hasn't visited you and the kids in a while." Cobb didn't remember seeing Eames around the funeral, but then, he didn't remember much about it other than the way Phillipa's hand had been sticky and Mal's mother wouldn't let go of James.

"How would you know?" Arthur muttered, taking his eyes from the skyline and staring at the blue carpet. Dom didn't know what Arthur meant by that so he ignored it. He fingered Mal's top, light in his pocket. He wanted to spin it but the look Arthur gave him whenever he caught Dom unsure was something that made him feel even guiltier than he did on his own. He was almost certain Arthur knew, knew he had trapped Mal in limbo and that she had jumped from the hotel window to wake up. He was almost certain Arthur had recognized her madness. Dom knew what it was because, after Limbo, sometimes he felt the same way. He talked Mal down and stopped her from drowning in the bathtub with an almost experienced air. Dom wondered whom Arthur knew who had tried waking up.

"He and I aren't together anymore," Arthur said aloud. He looked over at Dom. It was moments like this that made him feel the eighty something he really was; before he lived a lifetime in limbo, Arthur had been a little like a younger brother. When he was younger, Dom would have known what to say. Mal would have been there to say it.

"Oh," he said instead. Arthur nodded and slowly looked away.

"I'm an adult," he said decisively after a long, awkward pause in which Dom wondered if he was bringing the correct clothes for the heat of Kenya. "I'm mature. I can handle working with my ex-boyfriend. It's only hard if I let it be, right?"

"Right," Dom agreed absently. Arthur nodded to himself.

"Right," he said again. Dom zipped his bag and double-checked that his totem was in his pocket. "I like Ariadne," Arthur added after a while. "I think she will prove to be both competent and affable."

Dom hummed his agreement and stared at the lit waters of the Seine dimly, tracing the paths of humming tour boats buzzing with tourists and couples in love. He used to laugh with Mal on the pont Mirabeau, overlooking the running waters. Mal used to recite this sad little poem about the bridge, calling for the night's arrival, she said. He remembered the curve of her neck in the heat of high noon, stretching her arms in the sunlit markets near Sacré Coeur.

"In any case, she'll learn how, one way or another," Arthur said, and Dom looked back over at him, realizing he must have been talking. Arthur didn't seem to expect a response when he looked over at Dom. It was as though he knew he was really talking to himself, not Dom, when it came down to it. "I suppose I'll leave you to it. You have to be at the airport by five tomorrow morning."

"I know," Dom said, forcing a smile. Arthur offered a weak one in return.

"Do I need to set you an alarm?" Arthur asked. Cobb frowned and zipped his bag shut.

"I'll wake myself up." Arthur frowned but bid him goodnight nonetheless. If it was Arthur's phone call that woke him in the morning, neither man mentioned it.

*

He wasn't aware, really, that he was staring at Arthur. He had always watched Arthur, watched his hands and the precise, easy movements he made. He loved the way Arthur's hands shook when he was nervous, loved the way he flicked a thumb across his brow in contained anger. Eames watched Arthur spin pens; if one memorized his patterns, one could read his mindset in the code of his spins. He watched Arthur type, reading off of notes that seemed almost too neat to have been written in the hurry he always seemed to be in when working. He watched Arthur think, an almost visible process sometimes.

He missed watching Arthur stagnant, at home. Watching the furrow of his brow when he read tomes of history, science, biographies of baseball players, musicians, fiction and medical journals. Arthur read like it could save his life and Eames missed their apartment in LA, filled to the brim with Arthur's bookshelves. He missed watching Arthur absently nod approval when he ate his favourite foods, missed the faces he would make at soap operas he didn't understand, missed the way he would mime playing piano, always with his left hand, on his leg when he listened to music.

Arthur pushed glasses up his nose slightly and sighed at his monitor. He leant his chair back on two legs to grab a notebook from the table behind him. He balanced easily, reading his own handwriting with a squint. He felt Eames's gaze after a while and looked over and glared. He tossed the notebook down onto his desk, four legs of his chair hitting the ground.

He snapped, "Stop looking at me."

"I'm not looking at you," Eames lied, not moving his gaze. "I don't look at you."

"You're such a child," Arthur sneered, returning to his work. Eames didn't reply but he did watch the way Arthur aborted nervous ticks halfway through the motions and finally looked back over. "Stop," he repeated.

"Arthur," Cobb called, wandering into the bullpen, staring at a file. Arthur pushed his chair, turning the seat to face Cobb. "What the hell is this?" he asked, hefting the papers. Arthur shrugged.

"A file folder," he replied unhelpfully. His voice was half-coloured with sarcasm. Cobb held out the file, showing Arthur the contents. "Oh. That's all we've got on the relationship between Browning and Fischer Junior."

"I asked for more than this," Cobb said. "This isn't good enough. I asked for something useful, Arthur. At this rate, we'll miss something important and the whole operation will be blown."

"I can't get you records that don't exist," Arthur said, sounding mildly desperate. Cobb slammed a thin folder down angrily. Arthur winced at the disapproval.

"For Christ's sakes, Arthur," Cobb growled. Arthur stood, picking up the folder Cobb had just dropped.

"Look, see," Arthur tried hurriedly. He held the file out, flipping to a page in the middle. "These newspaper clippings are helpful. The few interviews they have had together are the best we can get right now. The fact that there are so few does point to a lack of report; it tells us something useful. Neither goes to therapy or anything; I can't get you evidence about their relationship if it just doesn't exist. There isn't a better way to gauge it until Eames is in place--"

"There is always a better way, and you used to be able to always find it," Cobb snapped. "Figure it out. We can't operate only on rumour. You know that."

"We have it figured out!" Arthur insisted. "Cobb, until Eames is—"

"I don't want to hear it," he said, turning on his heel and storming away. Arthur sank slowly back into his seat, staring blankly at the file. Arthur finally sighed, closing the file and turning to one of his laptops. Eames stood and wandered over to Arthur's worktable, casually sitting in a chair about a meter away from Arthur. Arthur gave him a short glare but said nothing.

"You've been busy," Eames commented quietly. Arthur steadfastly ignored him, typing away at the laptop. Eames could see the blue light of familiar firewalls reflected in Arthur's glasses. He wondered when, in the past four months since he'd seen Arthur, that that had become a development. They had left on horrible terms in that café, splitting up again and Eames had honestly thought he'd never get another chance. "I could barely get ahold of you to find out if you'd even be here," he added, trying to bait Arthur into replying. 

"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur snapped finally. "You knew I'd be here because Cobb told you I would be and also, he never works without me. You didn't even try to contact me." Eames looked up from his reading, knowing from Arthur's tone that he could be baited into a fight if Eames said the right thing and fighting was better than not speaking, right?

"You changed your number," he pointed out.

"That has never stopped you from finding any business contacts before, and I've found you when you've changed yours," Arthur said sharply. He glared at Eames, sweeping a displeased eye over him. "Stop talking to me."

"Jesus," Eames muttered, slamming his papers down on Arthur's desk. Arthur didn't even bat an eyelid, patiently tapping away on a keyboard. Eames definitely did not resent the lack of a response. "You can't just be _angry_ with me forever."

"Why not?" Arthur asked shortly. "That's all you were planning to do after you left." Eames winced at the poorly hidden hurt in Arthur's voice. Neither of them could forget that Eames had been in the wrong, it seemed.

"I thought you were having an affair," he begged. "I've said I'm sorry. I am sorry. But I thought you were cheating. You can't blame me."  
   
"Sure I can," Arthur said, still not looking up, even as his fingers shook and stumbled about the keys. He tapped backspace several times. "I think I'm quite well justified."  
   
"Arthur, I thought—"

"No, I understand," Arthur interrupted. "I understand what you thought. I understand what you're saying. I do not, however, understand how you thought that. Why you would ever doubt me." Eames leaned back in his chair and watched Arthur pull his glasses off to rub at tired eyes. He didn't look any better than he did in that café, ages ago. His ex-boyfriend tossed his glasses onto his desk and leaned his head on a hand, breathing deeply. He looked so very old.

"Cobb's been a lot harder on you lately," Eames offered after a moment. If Arthur looked stressed, Cobb looked like an escapee from an asylum. Arthur was the shining paragon of sanity in comparison.

"Shut the fuck up," Arthur muttered, opening his eyes to blink, eyes unfocused, in Eames's direction.

"What?" Eames demanded. "Am I not allowed to notice things anymore?"

"No," Arthur said simply, turning away. He slid his glasses back on and turned back to his work. "No, you are not. You promised me that you'd never go anywhere and then you left. You ended it. You hurt me and you lost the right to care about me."

"Arthur—"

"You tore me to pieces when you left," Arthur continued, his voice strangely calm even as he resumed typing almost furiously. "You broke me in a way I'd never been broken. You left and refused to talk to me, even when Mal died, and I needed you." His voice cracked over Mal's name and Eames noticed that Arthur's fingers began to shake again. He stopped typing. "I fucking _needed_ you," he said desperately, "and you refused to come back for even a day. You're the bad guy here. You're not allowed to notice things. You most certainly aren't allowed to try to talk to me like you know me. You know nothing about me, Mr. Eames, if you felt I would ever betray your trust like that. If you felt it could be fixed with a simple apology. If you think I can ever fix it myself. If you feel I should forgive you. You do not know me."

 

 "I am sorry," Eames offered genuinely after a long, heavy silence, his voice quiet. Arthur looked at him then, and Eames knew Arthur believed him. That was the worst part. Arthur knew how sorry he was and they both knew it didn't change anything. It didn't make anything better and it certainly didn't make them OK.

 "I know," Arthur whispered. "Fuck. I'm so tired. I'm tired of hating you. It's exhausting. I don't think I can do this anymore." Eames scooped up his papers, moving away from Arthur's desk to give them both some space. He breathed deep and tried to just let Arthur know that if he understood anything, he understood that. "Eames."

"I know."  
   
*

Eames knocked on the familiar door after aborting a movement to check his pockets for his keys. He knocked again after a minute or so, begging himself not to wuss out. Eventually the door opened, and there stood Arthur. He was still in his suit for all that he must have gotten home from the airport an hour ago, assuming he stopped for groceries like he did whenever he landed in a city where he owned more than a hotel reservation. He looked tired and frustrated and beautiful.

"Please don't shut the door," Eames said when Arthur made to slam the door in his face. Arthur didn't, but he didn't let Eames enter his apartment either, blocking the door only about a shoulder's width open. "May I come in? I don't really want to say what I have to say in the hall." Arthur glared.

"Why are you here?"

"I almost got killed in that dream today," Eames admitted. Arthur nodded. "You did too. We all did. And I could've been trapped in limbo. You provided a drop in free fall. If you hadn't, I'd still be down there." Arthur nodded again. "And that just made me realize a bit more than I already had that I need to say some things to you." He felt horribly at sea, standing in the hall, a stranger in what used to be his home. Arthur didn't say anything as Eames waited for a reaction, and finally, he forced himself to continue. He hadn't come here with anything planned out, or a speech. He was, like he always seemed to be, stumbling thru, beginning a story without thinking of the punchline. He took a deep breath, steadying his regrettably shaky nerves.

"When there's a crisis, you don't stumble or mess up. I panicked on the first level and you kept your cool even when Cobb yelled at you, even though I know you don't do well when he yells. You didn't freeze. Because you've survived worse. You pull the rest of us through and you make sure we survive whatever it is that comes along. Whether it's Cobb's insanity, or sub-security or the fact that I know you made Ariadne several aliases to use 'just in case'. You pull everyone through the danger. You protect people with ferocity, even when they don't deserve it. When I don't deserve it."

Arthur stared at him hard for a moment. He looked away and stepped back, letting Eames enter the apartment. It hadn't changed much since the last time he was in here, back before everything had gone sour and back before he'd broken Arthur's heart. New books lay piled on the table and the TV wasn't there anymore to be dusty, replaced with shelves of tattered, fourth-hand history books and science journals. He followed Arthur's retreating form, letting the door shut behind him.

"And if it wasn't for my own insanity, you and me, us, we would have survived too," Eames said desperately. "We would have made it. And I know it's not fair," he added. "And I know I'm an asshole and I'm horrible and you have every right to hate me and to say no." Arthur met his eyes. He wasn't wearing socks, barefoot on the old, hardwood floors. "But I fucked up. I ruined everything; I know that. I _know_ that." Arthur looked away again. His face was unreadable. Eames had always been able to read Arthur. Sometimes he read wrong, but he usually could guess. He had not an idea, right now, what Arthur was feeling. "I know that," he repeated softly. "But I love you." Arthur's gaze snapped to his. He hoped Arthur could see his sincerity.

"I miss you," he added. "You make me happy and you make me sick with need to be better, to be enough for you. To make myself good enough to deserve someone like you. You make me want to try."

"You're amazing. You love people. I don't even know how you get up in the morning," he admitted. "Because you've got all this trauma and you just brush it aside and you love. You love Cobb even though his subconscious tries to get you killed. You love Ariadne even though you've only known her about three months. You love Phillipa and you love James. I'm pretty sure you love me even though I—" He paused, unsure what he should tack on. How could he describe what he had done? How could he assume to know how he had made Arthur feel? "So I'm asking you because it's Tuesday. It's Tuesday and I'm wondering if you'd let me try to make it up to—"

Arthur held out a hand and Eames immediately silenced. Arthur wasn't even really looking at him, but just a raised, open palm silenced him. Arthur had changed from a terrified, scarred seventeen year old into a man who commanded silence and respect with a simple, raised palm, even barefoot in a suit while leaning against the back of a worn, old couch. Eames marveled at the confidence he'd fallen for and wondered how he'd forgotten the small details about Arthur in the year since they'd broken up. He lowered his hand and raised his gaze to Eames.

"Fact:" Arthur said after a long time, "I am Arthur. Fact: I am the best point man in the whole world. Fact: I am accurate and precise. Fact: I dress in a manner fitting of a proper adult. I cook well," he added as almost an afterthought. Eames breathed, unsure of what to do or say. He felt strangely ashamed under Arthur's gaze and he looked down at his feet. "Facts are what I do. I operate within the realm of impossibility and in doing so, it has become necessary for me to surround myself, within reality, with those I can trust and rely on. It is fact that I do not like people who put me on edge."

"Facts about you?" Arthur said after a pregnant pause. "You are an unbelievable snob. You are a slovenly ass of man who manipulates people for a living and refuses to listen to advice. You are the most recalcitrant and contrary and _stubborn_ person I have ever met. I am a professional." Eames could almost hear Arthur asking him to go, to give up. "Fact: you loved me. What the hell was wrong with me that I wouldn't let you?"

Eames looked up, shocked. Arthur shrugged sadly. He refused to meet Eames's eyes.

"You wanted commitment and I ran. It's not surprising that you let that fact lead you to the wrong conclusions," he allowed. "You are not the only one at fault." The air vibrated with tension, thick as white noise on a bad radio.

"You left one of your tee shirts in the laundry when you left. I wore it to bed for months because it smelled you," Arthur admitted shakily. He swallowed heavily, his brow pinched and looking so close to crying it hurt Eames to see it. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his tie loosened and slightly crooked. "How do I reconcile those facts?" he asked desperately. "How do they add up properly?" Eames felt a weight press on him, pushing down from all angles like a submarine swum too deep. He hadn't expected Arthur to be so damned, painfully honest.

"I am intelligent," Arthur choked, forcing his voice to be even as tried desperately to hold himself together. His breathing sounded like he was on the edge of a panic attack. Eames used to calm, not cause, his panic attacks on stormy nights. "I am damn near a genius for someone who was illiterate until they were nine. But I can't for the life of me figure out how I'm supposed to get over you if this is over. How I'm supposed to move on if you won't take me back. How I'm meant to breathe when all I want is to have you miss me and come home."

"Arthur, darling," Eames murmured, moving closer to the couch. Arthur stared at him and choked out a breath.

"And it's probably not healthy," Arthur sobbed, "to want someone this badly. To need you like this. I hate myself a little for letting myself become dependent on you and it makes me want to run but I just… It's been over a year and I still reach for you in the morning. I can't keep running. There's still an empty space where you're supposed to sleep and fuck you for making me love you like this!" he yelled. Eames tried to touch him, to pull Arthur into a hug. Arthur pushed him away firmly. He stood, trapped, an arm's length away and watched Arthur fall apart.

"You're a liar! You said you wouldn't go anywhere and you left me!" he screamed, smacking the back of the couch, angry tears streaming for all that he had swiped at them with a shaky hand. He continued in a soft, tremulous voice. "Fact: it's your fault. You made me love you. You made me let you in and then you fucking left me. And fact: I'm broken. I can't figure out how to put myself back together and I've always been fine alone." He ducked his chin against his chest. "I'm not good at this. I've never done emotion like this; I do facts. Things I can see and touch and read. I knew that you were that 'one' people say is your soul mate. It was a _fact_ and I could feel it. I could feel it," he repeated. "It was real. I knew it."

"I knew you were going to love me forever except you didn't and you were gone. I don't know what to do with this… this acidic feeling I have in the bottom of my chest when I look for you in my apartment and you're not there. When I eat dinner alone. When I read a book I think you'd like and I can't tell you about it. When you're gone."

Eames knew that feeling too well; he'd felt it every time he packed up to return to his hotel and had to remember that Arthur wouldn't be tsking at his attempts at cooking or pretending to not be flattered by Eames's flattery. He knew that feeling when he'd climbed into the taxi outside LAX and had to remember not to give the cabbie Arthur's cross streets. He knew the feeling.

"I'm confused," Arthur said, "and all I have are these mismatched facts: you left and now you're here. I want to run and I need to stay."

"I'm here now," Eames offered, taking a step towards Arthur. "I'm not leaving, love."

"If you leave again," Arthur said. His voice was barely audible. He shook his head and gasped at nothing. Eames stepped close and cupped Arthur's face, pressing their foreheads together. Arthur held his gaze easily, not backing down this time. Not giving up and leaving him alone with his mistakes in a tearoom. There was no shelter for either of them in this storm, scars bared.

"I'm sorry," Eames whispered. "I'm so, so sorry." And then Arthur kissed him, a bruising, surprisingly sudden press of lips. Eames held him tight, letting Arthur kiss him fiercely. It was far from gentle but it was the best kiss Eames had ever had. Arthur tangled his hands in Eames's hair, pulling him closer and tugging at his jacket.

Eames hadn't expected, of all things tonight, a kiss. He hadn't thought Arthur wanted him back as badly as he wanted Arthur. He didn't think either of them would be able to set aside their hurts and try to salvage their old lives together. Eames almost didn't know what to do, how to react. His body remembered Arthur, responding easily to the magnetic pull, but he knew, somewhere, that making up like this was probably a bad idea.

"Sweetheart, you…" Arthur made it hard to speak and think coherently. "Are you sure?" Eames asked stupidly, stilling Arthur's hands. He didn't want all of this to be written of as a mistake in the morning, when the adrenaline of the job and the weariness of jet lag had abated. Arthur nodded.

"If you leave," Arthur murmured against his skin, pulling at Eames's jacket again. "You can't. You just can't."

He pulled away slightly, making Arthur look at him. "We're not OK. We haven't fixed this."

"We've agreed to try," Arthur told him, tugging a gentle reprimand with his fingers in Eames's hair. "We can't fix it in one night. We might not be able to ever really fix it. I'm not OK. Mal's dead and Cobb's not who he was and Marie wants me to stay away from the kids for a while so they can get used to having their dad again. I'm not going to be OK."

Eames kissed Arthur's forehead, wishing things were as easy as they had been when he was kid: fetch an eraser and rub out all your errors. The only thing that childhood reliance had carried over to his adult life was the idea that only light lines with light rubs could be completely removed. His relationship with Arthur wasn't pencilled in; it was a harsh, thick mess of paints. No amount of erasing could make the mistakes go away. No amount of apologies and corrections could remove the black streak Eames had drawn thru the middle; no amount of touch-ups could erase the hundreds of nicks and scrapes in the portrait from Arthur's neuroses and scars.

Maybe that was OK, Eames thought, pulled back towards Arthur's lips. Maybe their story didn't need to be perfect to be amazing. Maybe they could figure out a way to navigate their errors.

"But if you stay right now," Arthur said. "If you stay. If I let you love me. Just," he whispered. He pulled Eames toward him, kissing him again and wiping words from Eames's lips. "Just. Please."


End file.
